


COFmiGHT DEPOSIT 













Come Rack! Come Rope! 
















Come Rack! Come Rope! 


BY 

ROBERT HUGH BENSON 

Author of "By What Authority V' "The King* a Achievement T 
"Lord, of the World,” etc. 



New York 

Dodd, Mead and Company 


1912 



Copyright, 1912, by 
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 


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©CLA.3-30245 

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PREFACE 


Very nearly the whole of this book is sober historical fact; 
and by far the greater number of the personages named in 
it once lived and acted in the manner in which I have pre- 
sented them. My hero and my heroine are fictitious; so 
also are the parents of my heroine, the father of my hero, 
one lawyer, one woman, two servants, a farmer and his wife, 
the landlord of an inn, and a few other entirely negligible 
characters. But the family of the FitzHerberts passed 
precisely through the fortunes which I have described; they 
had their confessors and their one traitor (as I have said). 
Mr. Anthony Babington plotted, and fell, in the manner that 
is related; Mary languis’hed in Chartley under Sir Amyas 
Paulet; was assisted by Mr. Bourgoign; was betrayed by 
her secretary and Mr. Gifford, and died at Fotheringay; 
Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam and Mr. Simpson received 
their vocations, passed through their adventures ; were 
captured at Padley, and died in Derby. Father Campion 
(from whose speech after torture the title of the book 
is taken) suffered on the rack and was executed at Tyburn. 
Mr. Topcliffe tormented the Catholics that fell into his 
hands; plotted with Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert, and bar- 
gained for Padley (which he subsequently lost again) on 
the terms here drawn out. My Lord Shrewsbury rode 
about Derbyshire, directed the search for recusants and 
presided at their deaths ; priests of all kinds came and went 
in disguise; Mr. Owen went about constructing hiding- 
holes ; Mr. Bassett lived defiantly at Langleys, and dabbled 
a little (I am afraid) in occultism; Mr. Fenton was often 
to be found in Hathersage — all these things took place 


V 


VI 


PREFACE 


as nearly as I have had the power of relating them. Two 
localities only, I think, are disguised under their names — 
Booth’s Edge and Matstead. Padley, or rather the chapel 
in which the last mass was said under the circumstances 
described in this book, remains, to this day, close to Grindle- 
ford Station. A Catholic pilgrimage is made there every 
year; and I have myself once had the honour of preaching 
on such an occasion, leaning against the wall of the old hall 
that is immediately beneath the chapel where Mr. Garlick 
and Mr. Ludlam said their last masses, and were cap- 
tured. If the book is too sensational, it is no more sensa- 
tional than life itself was to Derbyshire folk between 1579 
and 1588. 

It remains only, first, to express my extreme indebted- 
ness to Dom Bede Camm’s erudite book — “ Forgotten 
Shrines ” — from which I have taken immense quantities 
of information, and to a pile of some twenty to thirty 
other books that are before me as I write these words ; and, 
secondly, to ask forgiveness from the distinguished family 
that takes its name from the FitzHerberts and is descended 
from them directly; and to assure its members that old 
Sir Thomas, Mr. John, Mr. Anthony, and all the rest, 
down to the present day, outweigh a thousand times over 
(to the minds of all decent people) the stigma of Mr. 
Thomas* name. Even the apostles numbered one Judas! 

Robert Hugh Benson. 

Feast of the Blessed Thomas More, 1912. 

Hare Street House, Bunting ford. 


PART I 


i 




CHAPTER I 


I 

There srhould be no sight more happy than a young man 
riding to meet his love. His eyes should shine^ his lips 
should sing; he should slap his mare upon her shoulder 
and call her his darling. The puddles upon his way should 
be turned to pure gold^ and the stream that runs beside 
him should chatter her name. 

Yet, as Robin rode to Marjorie none of these things were 
done. It was a still day of frost ; the sky was arched above 
him, across the high hills, like that terrible crystal which is 
the vault above which sits God — hard blue from horizon 
to horizon; the fringe of feathery birches stood like fili- 
gree-work above him on his left; on his right ran the 
Derwent, sucking softly among his sedges; on this side 
and that lay the flat bottom through which he went — 
meadowland broken by rushes; his mare Cecily stepped 
along, now cracking the thin ice of the little pools with 
her dainty feet, now going gently over peaty ground, blow- 
ing thin clouds from her red nostrils, yet unencouraged by 
word or caress from her rider; who sat, heavy and all but 
slouching, staring with his blue eyes under puckered eye- 
lids, as if he went to an appointment which he would not 
keep. 

Yet he was a very pleasant lad to look upon, smooth- 
faced and gallant, mounted and dressed in a manner that 
should give any lad joy. He wore great gauntlets on his 
hands; he was in his habit of green; he had his steel- 
buckled leather belt upon him beneath his cloak and a pair 
of daggers in it, with his long-sword looped up; he had his 

3 


4 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


felt hat on his head, buckled again, and decked with half a 
pheasant’s tail; he had his long boots of undressed leather, 
that ros'e above his knees ; and on his left wrist sat his grim 
falcon Agnes, hooded and belled, not because he rode after 
game, but from mere custom, and to give her the air. 

He was meeting his first man’s trouble. 

Last year he had said good-bye to Derby Grammar 
School — of old my lord Bishop Durdant’s foundation — 
situated in St. Peter’s churchyard. Here he had done the 
right and usual things; he had learned his grammar; he 
had fought; he had been chastised; he had robed the effigy 
of his pious founder in a patched doublet with a saucepan 
on his head (but that had been done before he had learned 
veneration) — and so had gone home again to Matstead, 
proficient in Latin, English, history, writing, good man- 
ners and chess, to live with his father, to hunt, to hear 
mass when a priest was within reasonable distance, to 
indite painful letters now and then on matters of the estate, 
and to learn how to bear himself generally as should one 
of Master’s rank — the son of a gentleman who bore arms, 
and his father’s father before him. He dined at twelve, 
he supped at six, he said his prayers, and blessed himself 
when no strangers were by. He was something of a herb- 
alist, as a sheer hobby of his own; he went to feed his 
falcons in the morning, he rode with them after dinner 
(from last August he had found himself riding north more 
often than south, since Marjorie lived in that quarter) ; and 
now all had been crowned last Christmas Eve, when in the 
enclosed garden at her house he had kissed her two hands 
suddenly, and made her a little speech he had learned by 
heart; after which he kissed her on the lips as a man 
should, in the honest noon sunlight. 

All this was as it should be. There were no doubts or 
disasters anywhere. Marjorie was an only daughter as he 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


5 


an only son. Her father, it is true, was but a Derby law- 
yer, but he and his" wife had a good little estate above the 
Hathersage valley, and a stone house in it. As for religion, 
that was all well too. Master Manners was as good a 
Catholic as Master Audrey himself; and the families met 
at mass perhaps as much as four or five times' in the year, 
either at Padley, where Sir Thomas’ chapel still had 
priests coming and going; sometimes at Dethick in the 
Babingtons’ barn; sometimes as far north as Hare- 
wood. 

And now a man’s trouble was come upon the boy. The 
cause of it was as follows. 

Robin Audrey was no more religious than a boy of 
seventeen should be. Yet he had had as few doubts about 
the matter as if he had been a monk. His mother had 
taught him well, up to the time of her death ten years ago; 
and he had learned from her, as well as from his father 
when that professor spoke of it at all, that there were two 
kinds of religion in the world, the true and the false — that 
is to say, the Catholic religion and the other one. Cer- 
tainly there were shades of differences in the other one ; the 
Turk did not believe precisely as the ancient Roman, nor 
yet as the modern Protestant — yet these distinctions were 
subtle and negligible; they were all swallowed up in an 
unity of falsehood. Next he had learned that the Catholic 
religion was at present blown upon by many persons in 
high position; that pains and penalties lay upon all who 
adhered to it. Sir Thomas FitzHerbert, for instance, lay 
now in the Fleet in London on that very account. His own 
father, too, three or four times in the year, was under 
necessity of paying over heavy sums for the privilege of 
not attending Protestant worship; and, indeed, had been 
forced last year to sell a piece of land over on Lees Moor 
for this very purpose. Priests came and went at their 


6 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


peril. . . . He himself had fought two or three battles 
over the affair in St. Peter’s churchyard, until he had 
learned to hold his tongue. But* all this was just part of 
the game. It s'eemed to him as inevitable and eternal as 
the changes of the weather. Matstead Church, he knew, 
had once been Catholic; but how long ago he did not care 
to inquire. He only knew that for a while there had been 
some doubt on the matter; and that before Mr. Barton’s 
time, who was now minister there, there had been a proper 
priest in the place, who had read English prayers there 
and a sort of a mass, which he had attended as a little boy. 
Then this had ceased ; the priest had gone and Mr. Barton 
come, and since that time he had never been to church 
there, but had heard the real mass wherever he could with 
a certain s'ecrecy. And there might be further perils in 
future, as there might be thunderstorms or floods. There 
was still the' memory of the descent of the Commissioners 
a year or two after his birth ; he had been brought up on 
the stories of riding and counter-riding, and the hiding 
away of altar-plate and beads and vestments. But all 
this was in his bones and blood; it was as natural that 
professors of the false religion should seek to injure and 
distress professors of the true, as that the foxes should at- 
tack the poultry-yard. One took one’s precautions, one 
hoped for the best; and one was quite sure that one day 
the hapj)y ancient times his mother had told him of would 
come back, and Christ’s cause be vindicated. 

And now the foundations of the earth were moved and 
heaven reeled above him; for his father, after a month or 
two of brooding, had announced, on St. Stephen’s Day, 
that he could tolerate it no longer; that God’s demands 
were unreasonable; that, after all, the Protestant religion 
was the religion of her Grace, that men must learn to move 
with the times, and that he had paid his last fine. At 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


7 

Easter, he observed, he would take the bread and wine in 
Matstead Church, and Robin would take them too. 

II 

The sun stood half-way towards his setting as Robin rode 
up from the valley, past Padley, over the steep ascent 
that led towards Booth’s Edge. The boy was brighter a 
little asf he came up; he had counted above eighty snipe 
within the last mile and a half, and he was coming near to 
Marjorie. About him, rising higher as he rose, stood the 
great low-backed hills. Cecily stepped out more sharply, 
snuffing delicately, for she knew her way well enough by 
now, and looked for a feed; and the boy’s perplexities 
stood off from him a little. Matters must surely be better 
so soon as Marjorie’s clear eyes looked upon them. 

Then the roofs of Padley disappeared behind him, and 
he saw the smoke going up from the little timbered Hall, 
standing back against its bare wind-blown trees. 

A great clatter and din of barking broke out as the mare’s 
hoofs sounded on the half-paved space before the great 
door; and then, in the pause, a gaggling of geese, solemn 
and earnest, from out of sight. Jacob led the outcry, a 
great mastiff, chained by the entrance, of the breed of 
which three are set to meet a bear and four a lion. Then 
two harriers whipped round the corner, and a terrier’s 
head showed itself over the wall of the herb-garden on the 
left, as a man, bareheaded, in his shirt and breeches, ran 
out suddenly with a thonged whip, in time to meet a pair 
of spaniels in full career. Robin sat his horse silently till 
peace was resrtored, his right leg flung across the pommel, 
untwisting Agnes’ leash from his fist. Then he asked for 
Mistress Marjorie, and dropped to the ground, leaving his 
mare and falcon in the man’s hands, with an air. 


8 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


He flicked his fingers to growling Jacob as he went past 
to the side entrance on the east, stepped in through the 
little door that was beside the great one, and passed on as 
he had been bidden into the little court, turned to the left, 
went up an outside staircase, and so down a little passage 
to the ladies’ parlour, where he knocked upon the door. 
The voice he knew called to him from within; and he went 
in, smiling to himself. Then he took the girl who awaited 
him there in both his arms, and kissed her twice — first her 
hands and then her lips, for respect should come first and 
ardour second. 

“My love,” said Robin, and threw off his hat with the 
pheasant’s tail, for coolness’ sake. 

It was a sweet room this which he already knew by 
heart; for it was here that he had sat with Marjorie and 
her mother, silent and confused, evening after evening, last 
autumn; it was here, too, that she had led him last Christ- 
mas Eve, scarcely ten days ago, after he had kissed her in 
the enclosed garden. But the low frosty sunlight lay in 
it now, upon the blue painted wainscot that rose half 
up the walls, the tall presses where the linen lay, the pieces 
of stuff, embroidered with pale lutes and wreaths that Mis- 
tress Manners had bought in Derby, hanging now over the 
plaster spaces. There was a chimney, too, newly built, 
that was thought a great luxury; and in it burned an arm- 
ful of logs, for the girl was setting out new linen for the 
household, and the scents of lavender and burning wood 
disputed the air between them. 

“ I thought it would be you,” she said, “ when I heard 
the dogs.” 

She piled the last rolls of linen in an ordered heap, and 
came to sit beside him. Robin took one hand in his and sat 
silent. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


9 


She was of an age with him, perhaps a month the 
younger ; and, as it ought to be, was his very contrary in all 
respects. Where he was fair, she was pale and dark; his 
eyes were blue, hers black; he was lusty and showed prom- 
ise of broadness, she was slender. 

“ And what news do you bring with you now? ” she said 
presently. 

He evaded this. 

“ Mistress Manners ? he asked. 

“ Mother has a megrim,” she said ; “ she is in her 
chamber.” And she smiled at him again. For these two, 
as is the custom of young persons who love one another, 
had said not a word on either side — neither he to his father 
nor she to her parents. They believed, as young persons 
do, that parents who bring children into the world, hold it 
as a chief danger that these children should follow their 
example, and themselves be married. Besides, there is 
something delicious in secrecy. 

“ Then I will kiss you again,” he said, “ while there is 
opportunity.” 

Making love is a very good way to pass the time, above 
all when that same time presses and other disconcerting 
things should be spoken of instead; and this device Robin 
now learned. He spoke of a hundred things that were of 
no importance: of the dress that she wore — russet, as it 
should be, for country girls, with the loose sleeves folded 
back above her elbows that she might handle the linen; 
her apron of coarse linen, her steel-buckled shoes. He told 
her that he loved her better in that than in her costume of 
state — the ruff, the fardingale, the brocaded petticoat, and 
all the rest — in which he had seen her once last summer at 
Babington House. He talked then, when she would hear 
no more of that, of Tuesday seven-night, when they would 


10 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


meet for hawking in the lower chase of the Padley estates; 
and proceeded then to speak of Agnes^ whom he had left on 
the fist of the man who had taken his mare, of her in- 
creasing infirmities and her crimes of crabbing; and all the 
while he held her left hand in both of his, and fitted her 
fingers between his, and kissed them again when he had no 
more to say on any one point; and wondered why he could 
not speak of the matter on which he had come, and how 
he should tell her. And then at last she drew it from him. 

“ And now, my Robin,” she said, “ tell me what you have 
in your mind. You have talked of this and that and Agnes 
and Jock, and Padley chase, and you have not once looked 
me in the eyes since you first came in.” 

Now it was not shame that had held him from telling her, 
but rather a kind of bewilderment. The affair might hold 
shame, indeed, or anger, or sorrow, or complacence, but he 
did not know ; and he wished, as young men of decent birth 
should wish, to present the proper emotion on its right 
occasion. He had pondered on the matter continually 
since his father had spoken to him on Saint Stephen’s night ; 
and at one time it seemed that his father was acting the part 
of a traitor and at another of a philosopher. If it were 
indeed true, after all, that all men were turning Protestant, 
and that there was not so much difference between the 
two religions, then it would be the act of a wise man to 
turn Protestant too, if only for a while. And on the other 
hand his pride of birth and his education by his mother and 
his practice ever since drew him hard the other way. He 
was in a strait between the two. He did not know what 
to think, and he feared what Marjorie might think. 

It was this, then, that had held him silent. He feared 
what Marjorie might think, for that was the very thing that 
he thought that he thought too, and he foresaw a hundred 
inconveniences and troubles if it were so. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


11 


“ How did you know I had anything in my mind ? ” he 
asked. “ Is it not enough reason for my coming that you 
s’hould be here ? ” 

She laughed softly, with a pleasant scornfulness. 

“ I read you like a printed book/’ she said. “ What 
else are women’s wits given them for? ” 

He fell to stroking her hand again at that, but she drew 
it away. 

“ Not until you have told me,” she said. 

So then he told her. 

It was a long tale, for it began as far ago as last August, 
when hisr father had come back from giving evidence be- 
fore the justices at Derby on a matter of witchcraft, and 
had been questioned again about his religion. It was then 
that Robin had seen moodiness succeed to anger, and long 
silence to moodiness. He told the tale with a true lover’s 
art, for he watched her face and trained his tone and his 
manner as he saw her thoughts come and go in her eyes 
and lips, like gusts of wind across standing corn; and at 
last he told her outright what his father had said to him 
on St. Stephen’s night, and how he himself had kept 
silence. 

Marjorie’s face was as white as a moth’s wing when he 
was finishing, and her eyes like sunset pools ; but she flamed 
up bright and rosy as he finished. 

“ You kept silence ! ” she cried. 

“ I did not wish to anger him, my dear ; he is my father,” 
he said gently. 

The colour died out of her face again and she nodded 
once or twice, and a great pensiveness came down on her. 
He took her hand again softly, and she did not resist. 

“ The only doubt,” she said presently, as if she talked 
to herself, “ is whether you had best be gone at Easter, or 
stay and face it out.” 


12 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ Yes/’ said Robin, with his dismay come fully to the 
birth. 

Then she turned on him, full of a sudden tenderness and 
compassion. 

“ Oh ! my Robin,” she cried, “ and I have not said a 
word about you and your own misery. I was thinking but 
of Christ’s honour. You must forgive me. . . . What must 
it be for you! . . . That it should be your father! You 
are sure that he means it.^ ” 

“ My father does not speak until he means it. He is al- 
ways like that. He asks counsel from no one. He 
thinks and he thinks, and then he speaks ; and it is 
finished.” 

She fell then to thinking again, her sweet lips compressed 
together, and her eyes frightened and wondering, searching 
round the hanging above the chimney-breast. (It presented 
Icarus in the chariot of the sun; and it was said in Derby 
that it had come from my lord Abbot’s lodging at Bol- 
ton.) 

Meantime Robin thought too. He was as wax in the 
hands of this girl, and knew it, and loved that it should be 
so. Yet he could not help his dismay while he waited for 
her seal to come down on him and stamp him to her model. 
For he foresaw more clearly than ever now the hundred 
inconveniences that must follow, now that it was evident 
that to Marjorie’s mind (and therefore to God Almighty’s) 
there must be no tampering with the old religion. He 
had known that it must be so; yet he had thought, on the 
way here, of a dozen families he knew who, in his own 
memory, had changed from allegiance to the Pope of Rome 
to that of her Grace, without seeming one penny the worse. 
There were the Martins, down there in Derby; the Squire 
and his lady of Ashenden Hall; the Conways of Matlock; 
and the rest — these had all changed; and though he did not 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


13 


respect them for it, yet the truth was that they were not 
yet stricken by thunderbolts or eaten by the plague. He 
had wondered whether there were not a way to do as they 
had done, yet without the disgrace of it. . . . However, 
this was plainly not to be so with him. He must put up 
with the inconveniences as well as he could, and he just 
waited to hear from Marjorie how this must be done. 

She turned to him again at last. Twice her lips opened 
to speak, and twice she closed them again. Robin con- 
tinued to stroke her hand and wait for judgment. The 
third time she spoke. 

“ I think you must go away,” she said, “ for Easter. 
Tell your father that you cannot change your religion simply 
because he tells you so. I do not see what els’e is to be done. 
He will think, perhaps, that if you have a little time to 
think you will come over to him. Well, that is not so, 
but it may make it easier for him to believe it for a 
while. ... You must go somewhere where there is a 
priest. . . . Where can you go } ” 

Robin considered. 

“ I could go to Dethick,” he said. 

That is not far enough away, I think.” 

“ I could come here,” he suggested artfully. 

A smile lit in her eyes?, shone in her mouth, and passed 
again into seriousness. 

“ That is scarcely a mile further,” she said. “ We must 
think. . . . Will he be very angry, Robin?” 

Robin smiled grimly. 

“ I have never withstood him in a great affair,” he said. 

He is angry enough over little things.” 

‘‘ Poor Robin ! ” 

**Oh! he is not unjust to me. He is a good father to 
me.” 

“ That makes it all the sadder,” she said. 


14 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“And there is no other way? ” he asked presently. 

She glanced at him. 

“ Unless you would withstand him to the face. Would 
you do that, Robin? ” 

“ I will do anything you tell me,” he said simply. 

“You darling! . . . Well, Robin, listen to me. It is 
very plain that sooner or later you will have to withstand 
him. You cannot go away every time there is communion 
at Matstead, or, indeed, every Sunday. Your father would 
have to pay the fines for you, I have no doubt, unless you 
went away altogether. But I think you had better go away 
for this time. He will almost expect it, I think. At first 
he will think that you will yield to him ; and then, little by 
little (unless God’s grace brings himself back to the Faith), 
he will learn to understand that you will not. But it will 
be easier for him that way; and he will have time to think 
what to do with you, too. . . . Robin, what would you do 
if you went away ? ” 

Robin considered again. 

“ I can read and write,” he said. “ I am a Latinist. I 
can train falcons and hounds and break horses. I do not 
know if there is anything else that I can do.” 

“ You darling! ” she said again. 

These two, as will have been seen, were as simple as 
children, and as serious. Children are not gay and light- 
hearted, except now and then (just as men and women are 
not serious except now and then). They are grave and 
considering; all that they lack is experience. These two, 
then, were real children ; they were grave and serious 
because a great thing had disclosed itself to them in which 
two or three large principles were present, and no more. 
There was that love of one another, whose consummation 
seemed imperilled, for how could these two ever wed if 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


15 


Robin were to quarrel with his father? There was the 
Religion which was in their bones and blood — the Religion 
for which already they had suffered and their fathers be- 
fore them. There was the honour and loyalty which this 
new and more personal suffering demanded now louder 
than ever; and in Marjorie at least, as will be seen more 
plainly later, there was a strong love of Jesus Christ and 
His Mother, whom she knew, from her hidden crucifix and 
her beads, and her Jesus Psalter — which she used every 
day — as well as in her own soul — to be wandering together 
once more among the hills of Derbyshire, sheltering, at 
peril of Their lives, in stables and barns and little secret 
chambers, because there was no room for Them in Their 
own places. It was this last consideration, as Robin had 
begun to guess, that stood strongest in the girl; it was this, 
too, as again he had begun to guess, that made her all 
that s'he was to him, that gave her that strange serious air 
of innocency and sweetness, and drew from him a love 
that was nine-tenths reverence and adoration. (He always 
kissed her hands first, it will be remembered, before her 
lips.) 

So then they sat and considered and talked. They did 
not speak much of her Grace, nor of her Grace’s religion, 
nor of her counsellors and affairs of s^tate: these things 
were but toys and vanities compared with matters of love 
and faith; neither did they speak much of the Commission- 
ers that had been to Derbyshire once and would come 
again, or of the alarms and the dangers and the priest 
hunters, since those things did not at present touch them 
very closely. It was rather of Robin’s father, and whether 
and when the maid should tell her parents, and how this 
new trouble would conflict with their love. They spoke, 
that is to say, of their own business and of God’s; and of 
nothing else. The frosty sunshine crept down the painted 


16 COME RACK! COME ROPE! 

wainscot and lay at last at their feet, reddening to rosi- 
ness. . . . 

Ill 

Robin rode away at last with a very clear idea of what 
he was to do in the immediate present, and with no idea at 
all of what was to be done later. Marjorie had given him 
three things — advice; a pair of beads that had been the 
property of Mr. Cuthbert Maine, seminary priest, recently 
executed in Cornwall for his religion; and a kiss — the first 
deliberate, free-will kis’s she had ever given him. The first 
he was to keep, the second he was to return, the third he 
was to remember; and these three things, or, rather, his 
consideration of them, worked upon him as he went. Her 
advice, besides that which has been described, was, princi- 
pally, to say his Jesus Ps'alter more punctually, to hear 
mass whenever that were possible, to trust in God, and to be 
patient and submissive with his father in all things that did 
not touch divine love and faith. The pair of beads that were 
once Mr. Maine’s, he was to keep upon him always, day 
and night, and to use them for his devotions. The kiss — 
well, he was to remember this, and to return it to her upon 
their next meeting. 

A great star came out as he drew near home. His path 
took him not through the village, but behind it, near 
enough for him to hear the barkings of the dogs and to 
smell upon the frosty air the scent of the wood fires. The 
house was a great one for these parts. There was a small 
gate-house before it, built by his father for dignity, with a 
lodge on either side and an arch in the middle, and beyond 
this lay the short road, straight and broad, that went up 
to the court of the house. This court was, on three sides 
of it, buildings; the hall and the buttery and the living- 
rooms in tlie midst, with the stables and falconry on the 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 17 

left, and the servants’ lodgings on the right; the fourth 
side, that which lay opposite to the little gate-house, was 
a wall, with a great double gate in it, hung on stone posts 
that had, each of them, a great stone dog that held a blank 
shield. All this later part, the wall with the gate, the 
stables and the servants’ lodgings, as well as the gate- 
house without, had been built by the lad’s father twenty 
years ago, to bring home his wife to; for, until that time, 
the house had been but a little place, though built of stone, 
and solid and good enough. The house stood half-way up 
the rise of the hill, above the village, with woods about it 
and behind it; and it was above these woods behind that 
the great star came out like a diamond in enamel-work; 
and Robin looked at it, and fell to thinking of Marjorie 
again, putting all other thoughts away. Then, as he rode 
through into the court on to the cobbled stones, a man ran 
out from the stable to take his mare from him. 

“ Master Babington is here,” he said. “ He came half 
an hour ago.” 

“ He is in the hall.^ ” 

“Yes, sir; they are at supper.” 

The hall at Matstead was such as that of most esquires of 
means. Its dais was to the south end, and the buttery 
entrance and the screens to the north, through which came 
the servers with the meat. In the midst of the floor stood 
the reredos with the fire against it, and a round vent over- 
head in the roof through which went the smoke and came 
the rain. The tables stood down the hall, one on either 
side, with the master’s table at the dais end set cross-ways. 
It was not a great hall, though that was its name; it ran 
perhaps forty feet by twenty. It was lighted, not only by 
the fire that burned there through the winter day and 
night, but by eight torches in cressets that hung against the 


18 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


walls and sadly smoked them; and the master’s table was 
lighted by six candles^ of latten on common days and of sil- 
ver upon festivals. 

There were but two at the master’s table this evening, 
Mr. Audrey himself, a smallish, high-shouldered man, 
ruddy-faced, with bright blue eyes like his son’s, and no 
hair upon his face (for this was the way of old men then, 
in the country, at least) ; and Mr. Anthony Babington, a 
young man scarcely a year older than Robin himself, of 
a brown complexion and a high look in his face, but a 
little pale, too, with study, for he was learned beyond his 
years and read all the books that he could lay hand to. 
It was said even that his own verses, and a prose-lament 
he had written upon the Death of a Hound, were read with 
pleasure in London by the lords and gentlemen. It was as 
long ago as ’71, that his verses had first become known, 
when he was still serving in the school of good manners as 
page in my Lord Shrewsbury’s household. They were con- 
sidered remarkable for so young- a boy. So it was to this 
company that Robin came, walking up between the tables 
after he had washed his hands at the lavatory that stood 
by the screens. 

“ You are late, lad,” said his father. 

“ I was over to Padley, sir. . . . Good-day, Anthony.” 

Then silence fell again, for it was the custom in good 
houses to keep silence, or very nearly, at dinner and supper. 
At times music would play, if there was music to be had; 
or a scholar would read from a book for awhile at the be- 
ginning, from the holy gospels in devout households, or 
from some other grave book. But if there were neither 
music nor reading, all would hold their tongues. 

Robin was hungry from his riding and the keen air; and 
he ate well. First he stayed his appetite a little with a 
hunch of cheat-bread, and a glass of pomage, while the serv- 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


19 


ant was bringing him his entry of eggs cooked with pars- 
ley. Then he ate this; and next came half a wild-duck 
cooked with sage and sweet potatoes; and last of all a 
florentine which he ate with a cup of Canarian. He ate 
heartily and quickly, while the two waited for him and 
nibbled at marchpane. Then, when the doors were flung 
open and the troop of servants came in to their supper, Mr. 
Audrey blessed himself, and for them, too; and they went 
out by a door behind into the wainscoted parlour, where the 
new stove from. London stood, and where the conserves 
and muscadel awaited them. For this, or like it, had been 
the procedure in Matstead hall ever since Robin could re- 
member, when first he had come from the women to eat his 
food with the men. 

“ And how were all at Booth’s Edge } ” asked Mr. Au- 
drey, when all had pulled off their boots in country fashion, 
and were sitting each with his glass beside him. (Through 
the door behind came the clamour of the farm-men and the 
keepers of the chase and the servants, over their food.) 

“ I saw Marjorie only, sir,” said the boy. “ Mr. 
Manners was in Derby, and Mrs. Manners had a 
megrim.” 

“ Mrs. Manners is ageing swifter than her husband,” 
observed Anthony. 

There seemed a constraint upon the company this even- 
ing. Robin spoke of his ride, of things which he had seen 
upon it, of a wood that should be thinned next year; and 
Anthony made a quip or two such as he was accustomed 
to make ; but the master sat silent for the most part, speak- 
ing to the lads once or twice for civility’s sake, but no more. 
And presently silences began to fall, that were very un- 
usual things in Mr. Anthony’s company, for he had a quick 
and a gay wit, and talked enough for five. Robin knew 
very well what was the matter; it was what lay upon his 


20 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


own heart as heavy as lead ; but he was sorry that the signs 
of it should be so evident, and wondered what he should 
say to his friend Anthony when the time came for telling; 
since Anthony was as ardent for the old Faith as any in 
the land. It was a bitter time, this, for the old families 
that served God as their fathers had, and desired to serve 
their prince too; for, now and again, the rumour would go 
abroad that another house had fallen, and another name 
gone from the old roll. And what would Anthony Babing- 
ton say, thought the lad, when he heard that Mr. Audrey, 
who had been so hot and persevered so long, must be 
added to these ? 

And then, on a sudden, Anthony himself opened on a 
matter that was at least cognate. 

“ I was hearing to-day from Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert 
that his uncle would be let out again of the Fleet soon to 
collect his fines.” 

He spoke bitterly; and, indeed, there was reason; for 
not only were the recusants (as the Catholics were named) 
put in prison for their faith, but fined for it as well, and 
let out of prison to raise money for this, by selling their 
farms or estates. 

“He will go to Norbury?” asked Robin. 

“ He will come to Padley, too, it is thought. Her Grace 
must have her money for her ships and her men, and for 
her pursuivants to catch us all with; and it is we that must 
pay. Shall you sell again this year, sir ? ” 

Mr. Audrey shook his head, pursing up his lips and 
staring upon the fire. 

“ I can sell no more,” he said. 

Then an agony seized upon Robin lest his father should 
say all that was in his mind. He knew it must be said; 
yet he feared its saying, and with a quick wit he spoke of 
that which he knew would divert his friend. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


21 


“ And the Queen of the Scots,” he said. “ Have you 
heard more of her } ” 

Now Anthony Babington was one of those spirits that 
live largely within themselves, and therefore s'ee that which 
is without through a haze or mist of their own moods. He 
read much in the poets; you would say that Vergil and 
Ovid, as well as the poets of his own day, were his friends ; 
he lived within, surrounded by his own images, and there- 
fore he loved and hated with ten times the ardour of a com- 
mon man. He was furious for the Old Faith, furious 
against the new; he dreamed of wars and gallantry and 
splendour; you could see it even in his dress, in his furred 
doublet, the embroideries at his throat, his silver-hilted 
rapier, as well as in his port and countenance: and the 
burning heart of all his images, the mirror on earth of 
Mary in heaven, the emblem of his piety, the mistress of his 
dreams — she who embodied for him what the courtiers in 
London protested that Elizabeth embodied for them — the 
pearl of great price, the one among ten thousand — this, 
for him, was Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, now prisoner 
in her cousin’s hands, going to and fro from house to 
house, with a guard about her, yet with all the seeming of 
liberty and none of its reality. . . . 

The rough bitterness died out of the boy’s face, and a 
look came upon it as of one who sees a vision. 

“ Queen Mary? ” he said, as if he pronounced the name 
of the Mother of God. “ Yes; I have heard of her. . . . She 
is in Norfolk, I think.” 

Then he let flow out of him the stream that always ran 
in his heart like sorrowful music ever since the day when 
first, as a page, in my Lord Shrewsbury’s house in Shef- 
field, he had set eyes on that queen of sorrows. Then, 
again, upon the occasion of his journey to Paris, he had 
met with Mr. Morgan, her servant, and the Bishop of Glas- 


22 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


gow, her friend, whose talk had excited and inspired him. 
He had learned from them something more of her glories 
and beauties, and remembering what he had seen of her, 
adored her the more. He leaned back now, shading his 
eyes from the candles upon the table, and began to sing his 
love and his queen. He told of new insults that had been 
put upon her, new deprivations of what was left to her 
of liberty; he did not speak now of Elizabeth by name, 
since a fountain, even of talk, should not give out at once 
sweet water and bitter; but he spoke of the day when 
Mary should come herself to the throne of England, and 
take that which was already hers; when the night should 
roll away, and the morning-star arise; and the Faith should 
come again like the flowing tide, and all things be again 
as they had been from the beginning. It was rank treason 
that he talked, such as would have brought him to Tyburn 
if it had been spoken in London in indiscreet company; 
it was that treason which her Grace herself had made pos- 
sible by her faithlessness to God and man; such treason 
as God Himself must have mercy upon, since He reads all 
hearts and their intentions. The others kept silence. 

At the end he stood up. Then he stooped for his boots. 

“ I must be riding, sir,” he said. 

Mr. Audrey raised his hand to the latten bell that stood 
beside him on the table. 

“ I will take Anthony to his horse,” said Robin suddenly, 
for a thought had come to him. 

Then good-night, sir,” said Anthony, as he drew on 
his second boot and stood up. 

The sky was all ablaze with stars now as they came out 
into the court. On their right shone the high windows of 
the little hall where peace now reigned, except for the clat- 
ter of the boys who took away the dishes; and the night 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


23 


was very still about them in the grip of the frost, for the 
village went early to bed, and even the dogs were asleep. 

Robin said nothing as they went over the paving, for his 
determination was not yet ripe, and Anthony was still 
aglow with his own talk. Then, as the servant who waited 
for his master, with the horses, showed himself in the 
stable-arch with a lantern, Robin’s mind was made up. 

“ I have something to tell you,” he said softly, “ Tell 
your man to wait.” 

“ Eh.?” 

“ Tell your man to wait with the horses.” 

His heart beat hot and thick in his throat as he led the 
way through the screens and out beyond the hall and down 
the steps again into the pleasaunce. Anthony took him by 
the sleeve once or twice, but he said nothing, and went on 
across the grass, and out through the open iron gate that 
gave upon the woods. He dared not say what he had to 
say within the precincts of the house, for fear he should be 
overheard and the shame known before its time. Then, 
when they had gone a little way into the wood, into the 
dark out of the starlight, Robin turned; and, as he turned, 
saw the windows of the hall go black as the boys ex- 
tinguished the torches. 

“Well.?” whispered Anthony sharply (for a fool could 
see that the news was to be weighty, and Anthony was no 
fool). 

It was wonderful how Robin’s thoughts had fixed them- 
selves since his talk with Mistress Marjorie. He had gone 
to Padley, doubting of what he should say, doubting what 
she would tell him, asking himself even whether compliance 
might not be the just as well as the prudent way. Yet now 
black shame had come on him — the black shame that any 
who was a Catholic should turn from his faith; blacker, 
that he should so turn without even a touch of the rack 


24 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


or the threat of it; blackest of all^ that it should be his own 
father who should do this. It was partly food and wine 
that had strengthened him, partly Anthony’s talk just now; 
but the frame and substance of it all was Marjorie and her 
manner of speaking, and her faith in him and in God. 

He stood still, silent, breathing so heavily that Anthony 
heard him. 

“Tell me, Rob; tell me quickly.” 

Robin drew a long breath. 

“You saw that my father was silent.^” he said. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Stay. . . . Will you swear to me by the mass that you 
will tell no one what you will hear from me till you hear 
it from others ? ” 

“ I will swear it,” whispered Anthony in the darkness. 

Again Robin sighed in a long, shuddering breath. An- 
thony could hear him tremble with cold and pain. 

“ Well,” he said, “ my father will leave the Church next 
Easter. He is tired of paying fines, he says. And he has 
bidden me to come with him to Matstead Church.” 

There was dead silence. 

“ I went to tell Marjorie to-day,” whispered Robin. 
“ She has promised to be my wife some day ; so I told her, 
but no one else. She has bidden me to leave Matstead for 
Easter, and pray to God to show me what to do afterwards. 
Can you help me, Anthony? ” 

He was seized suddenly by the arms. 

“Robin ... No .... no! It is not possible!’' 

“It is certain. I have never known my father to turn 
from his word.” 

From far away in the wild woods came a cry as the two 
stood there. It might be a wolf or fox, if any were there, 
or some strange night-bird, or a woman in pain. It rose. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


25 


it seemed, to a scream, melancholy and dreadful, and then 
died again. The two heard it, but said nothing, one to the 
other. No doubt it was some beast in a snare or a-hunting, 
but it chimed in with the desolation of their hearts so as to 
seem but a part of it. So the two stood in silence. The 
house was quiet now, and most of those within it upon 
their beds. Only, as the two knew, there still sat in silence 
within the little wainscoted parlour, with his head on his 
hand and a glass of muscadel beside him — he of whom they 
thought — the father of one and the friend and host of the 
other. ... It was not until this instant in the dark and 
in the quiet, with the other lad’s hands still gripped on to 
his arms, that this boy understood the utter shame and 
the black misery of that which he had said, and the other 
heard. 


CHAPTER II 


I 

There were excuses in plenty for Robin to ride abroad, 
to the north towards Hathersage or to the south towards 
Dethick, as the whim took him; for he was learning to 
manage the estate that should be his one day. At one 
time it was to quiet a yeoman whose domain had been 
ridden over and his sown fields destroyed ; at another, to dis- 
pute with a miller who claimed for injury through floods 
for which he held his lord responsible; at a third, to see 
to the woodland or the fences broken by the deer. He came 
and went then as he willed; and on the second day, after 
Anthony’s visit, set out before dinner to meet him, that 
they might speak at length of what lay now upon both their 
hearts. 

To his father he had said no more, nor he to him. His 
father sat quiet in the parlour, or was in his own chamber 
when Robin was at home; but the lad understood very well 
that there was no thought of yielding. And there were a 
dozen things on which he himself must come to a decision. 
There was the first, the question as to where he was to go 
for Eas'ter, and how he was to tell his father; what to do if 
his father forbade him outright; whether or no the priests 
of the district should be told; what to do with the chapel 
furniture that was kept in a secret place in a loft at Mat- 
stead. Above all, there hung over him the thought of 
what would come after, if his father held to his decision and 
would allow him neither to keep his religion at home nor go 
elsewhere. 


36 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


27 


On the second day, therefore, he rode out (the frost still 
holding, though the sun was clear and warm), and turned 
southwards through the village for the Dethick road, to- 
wards the place in which he had appointed to meet An- 
thony. At the entrance to the village he passed the min- 
ister, Mr. Barton, coming out of his house, that had been 
the priest’s lodging, a middle-aged man, made a minister 
under the new Prayer-Book, and therefore, no priest as 
were some of the ministers about, who had been made 
priests under Mary. He was a solid man, of no great 
wit or learning, but there was not an ounce of harm in him. 
(They were fortunate, indeed, to have such a minister; 
since many parishes had but laymen to read the services; 
and in one, not twenty miles away, the squire’s falconer 
held the living.) Mr. Barton was in his sad-coloured cloak 
and round cap, and saluted Robin heartily in his loud, 
bellowing voice. 

“ Riding abroad again,” he cried, “ on some secret 
errand ! ” 

“ I will give your respects to Mr. Babington,” said Robin, 
smiling heavily. “ I am to meet him about a matter of 
a tithe too ! ” 

“Ah! you Papists would starve us altogether if you 
could,” roared the minister, who wished no better than to 
be at peace with his neighbours, and was all for liberty. 

“ You will get your tithe safe enough — one of you, at 
least,” said Robin. ” It is but a matter as to who shall 
pay it.” 

He waved good-day to the minister and set his horse to 
the Dethick track. 

There was no going fast to-day along this country road. 
The frosts and the thaws had made of it a very way of 
sorrows. Here in the harder parts was a tumble of ridges 


28 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


and holes, with edges as hard as steel; here in the s'ofter, 
the faggots laid to build it up were broken or rotted 
through, making it no better than a trap for horses’ feet ; 
and it was a full hour before Robin finished his four miles 
and turned up through the winter woodland to the yeoman’s 
farm where he was to meet Anthony. It was true, as he 
had said to Mr. Barton, that they were to speak of a mat- 
ter of tithe — this was to be their excuse if his father ques- 
tioned him — for there was a doubt as to in which parish 
stood this farm, for the yeoman tilled three meadows that 
were in the Babington estate and two in Matstead. 

As he came up the broken ground on to the crest of the 
hill, he saw Anthony come out of the yard-gate and the 
yeoman with him. Then Anthony mounted his' horse and 
rode down towards him, bidding the man stay, over his 
shoulder. 

“ It is all plain enough,” shouted Anthony loud enough 
for the man to hear. “ It is Dethick that must pay. You 
need not come up, Robin; we must do the paying.” 

Robin checked his mare and waited till the other came 
near enough to speak. 

“ Young Thomas FitzHerbert is within. He is riding 
round his new estates,” sraid the other beneath his breath. 
“ I thought I would come out and tell you; and I do not 
know where we can talk or dine. I met him on the road, 
and he would come with me. He is eating his dinner 
there.” 

But I must eat my dinner too,” said Robin, in dismay. 

“ Will you tell him of what you have told me ? He is 
safe and discreet, I think.” 

Why, yes, if you think so,” said Robin. “ I do not 
know him very well.” 

“ Oh ! he is safe enough, and he has learned not to talk. 
Besides, all the country will know it by Easter.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 29 

So they turned their horses back again and rode up to 
the farm. 

It was a great day for a yeoman when three gentlemen 
should take their dinners in his house; and the place was 
in a respectful uproar. From the kitchen vent went up a 
pillar of smoke, and through its door, in and out contin- 
ually, fled maids with dishes. The yeoman himself, John 
Merton, a dried-looking, lean man, stood cap in hand to 
meet the gentlemen; and his wife, crimson-faced from the 
fire, peeped and smiled from the open door of the living- 
room that gave immediately upon the yard. For these 
gentlemen were from three of the principal estates here 
about. The Babingtons had their country house at Dethick 
and their town house in Derby ; the Audreys owned a matter 
of fifteen hundred acres at least all about Matstead; and 
the FitzHerberts, it was said, scarcely knew themselves 
all that they owned, or rather all that had been theirs 
until the Queen’s Grace had begun to strip them of it little 
by little on account of their faith. The two Padleys, at 
least, were theirs, besides their principal house at Norbury; 
and now that Sir Thomas was in the Fleet Prison for his 
religion, young Mr. Thomas, his heir, was of more account 
than ever. 

He was at his dinner when the two came in, and he rose 
and saluted them. He was a smallish kind of man, with a 
little brown beard, and his short hair, when he lifted his 
flapped cap to them, showed upright on hisr head; he 
smiled pleasantly enough, and made space for them to sit 
down, one at each side. 

We shall do very well now, Mrs. Merton,” he said, 
** if you will bring in that goose once more for these gentle- 
men.” 

Then he made excuses for beginning his dinner before 


30 COME RACK! COME ROPE! 

them: he was on his way home and must be off again 
presently. 

It was a well-furnished table for a yeoman’s house. 
There was a linen napkin for each guest, one corner of 
which he tucked into his throat, while the other corner lay 
beneath his wooden plate. The twelve silver spoons were 
laid out on the smooth elm-table, and a silver salt stood 
before Mr. Thomas. There was, of course, an abundance 
to eat and drink, even though no more than two had been 
expected; and John Merton himself stood hatless on the 
further side of the table and took the dishes from the 
bare-armed maids to place them before the gentlemen. 
There was a jack of metheglin for each to drink, and a 
huge loaf of miscelin (or bread made of mingled corn) 
stood in the midst and beyond the salt. 

They talked of this and of that and of the other, freely 
and easily — of Mr. Thomas’ marriage with Mistress West- 
ley that was to take place presently; of the new entail- 
ment of the estates made upon him by his uncle. John 
Merton inquired, as was right, after Sir Thomas, and 
openly shook his head when he heard of his sufferings 
(for he and his wife were as good Catholics as any in the 
countrj'^) ; and when the room was empty for a moment of 
the maids, spoke of a priest who, he had been told, would 
say mass in Tansley next day (for it was in this way, for 
the most part, that such news was carried from mouth 
to mouth). Then, when the maids came in again, the 
battle of the tithe was fought once more, and Mr. Thomas 
pronounced sentence for the second time. 

They blessed themselves, all four of them, openly at the 
end, and went out at last to their horses. 

“ Will you ride with us, sir.^ ” asked Anthony; “ we can 
go your way. Robin here has something to say to you.” 

“ I shall be happy if you will give me your company for 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


31 


a little. I must be at Padley before dark, if I can, and 
must visit a couple of houses on the way.” 

He called out to his two servants, who ran out from the 
kitchen wiping their mouths, telling them to follow at once, 
and the three rode off down the hill. 

Then Robin told him. 

He was silent for a while after he had put a question or 
two, biting his lower lip a little, and putting his little beard 
into his mouth. Then he burst out. 

“ And I dare not ask you to come to me for Easter,” 
he said. “ God only knows where I shall be at Easter. 
I shall be married, too, by then. My father is in London 
now and may send for me. My uncle is in the Fleet. I 
am here now only to see what money I can raise for the 
fines and for the solace of my uncle. I cannot ask you, 
Mr. Audrey, though God knows that I would do anything 
that I dould. Have you nowhere to go? Will your father 
hold to what he says ? ” 

Robin told him yes; and he added that there were four 
or five places he could go to. He was not asking for help 
or harbourage, but advice only. 

“ And even of that I have none,” cried Mr. Thomas. “ I 
need all that I can get myself. I am distracted, Mr. Bab- 
ington, with all these troubles.” 

Robin asked him whether the priests who came and went 
should be told of the blow that impended; for at those 
times every apostasy was of importance to priests who had 
to run here and there for shelter. 

“ I will tell one or two of the more discreet ones my- 
self/’ said Mr. Thomas, “ if you will give me leave. I 
would that they were all discreet, but they are not. We 
will name no names, if you please; but some of them are 
unreasonable altogether and think nothing of bringing us 
all into peril.” 


32 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


He began to bite his beard again. 

“ Do you think the Commissioners will visit us again ” 
asked Anthony. “ Mr. Fenton was telling me ” 

“ It is Mr. Fenton and the like that will bring them down 
on us if any will,” burst out Mr. FitzHerbert peevishly. 
“ I am as good a Catholic, I hope, as any in the world ; 
but we can surely live without the sacraments for a month 
or two sometimes ! But it is this perpetual coming and 
going of priests that enrages her Grace and her counsellors. 
I do not believe her Grace has any great enmity against us ; 
but she soon will, if men like Mr. Fenton and Mr. Bassett 
are for ever harbouring priests and encouraging them. It 
is the same in London, I hear ; it is the same in Lancashire ; 
it is the same everywhere. And all the world knows it, 
and thinks that we do contemn her Grace by such boldness. 
All the mischief came in with that old Bull, Regnans in 
Excelsis, in ’69, and ” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” came in a quiet voice from be- 
yond him; and Robin, looking across, saw Anthony with a 
face as if frozen. 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! ” burst out Mr. Thomas, with an uneasy 
air. “ The Holy Father, I take it, may make mistakes, 
as I understand it, in such matters, as well as any man. 
Why, a dozen priests have said to me they thought it in- 
opportune; and ” 

“ I do not permit,” said Anthony with an air of dignity 
beyond his years, “ that any man should speak so in my 
company.” 

“Well, well; you are too hot altogether, Mr. Babington. 
I admire such zeal indeed, as I do in the saints ; but we are 
not bound to imitate all that we admire. Say no more, 
srir; and I will say no more either.” 

They rode in silence. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


33 


It was, indeed, one of those matters that were in dispute 
at that time amongst the Catholics. The Pope was not 
swift enough for some, and too swift for others. He had 
thundered too soon, said one party, if, indeed, it was right 
to thunder at all, and not to wait in patience till the 
Queen’s Grace should repent hers’elf ; and he had thundered 
not soon enough, said the other. Whence it may at least 
be argued that he had been exactly opportune. Yet it 
could not be denied that since the day when he had de- 
clared Elizabeth cut off from the unity of the Church and 
her subjects absolved from their allegiance — though never, 
as some pretended then and have pretended ever since, that 
a private person might kill her and do no wrong — ever 
since that day her bitterness had increased yearly against 
her Catholic people, who desired no better than to serve 
both her and their God, if she would but permit that to be 
possible. 

II 

It would be an hour later that they bid good-bye to Mr. 
Thomas Fitz Herbert, high among the hills to the east of the 
Derwent river ; and when they had seen him ride off towards 
Wingerworth, rode yet a few furlongs together to speak of 
what had been said. 

“ He can do nothing, then,” said Robin ; “ not even to 
give good counsel.” 

“ I have never heard him speak so before,” cried An- 
thony ; “ he must be near mad, I think. It must be his 
marriage, I suppose.” 

“ He is full of his own troubles ; that is plain enough, 
without seeking others. Well, I must bear mine as best I 
can.” 

They were just parting — Anthony to ride back to Deth- 
ick, and Robin over the moors to Matstead, when over a 


34 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


rise in the ground they saw the heads of three horsemen 
approaching. It was a wild country that they were in; 
there were no houses in s'ight; and in such circumstances it 
was but prudent to remain together until the character of 
the travellers should be plain; so the two, after a word, 
rode gently forward, hearing the voices of the three talking 
to one another, in the still air, though without catching a 
word. For, as they came nearer the voices ceased, as if the 
talkers feared to be overheard. 

They were well mounted, these three, on horses known 
as Scottish nags, s'quare-built, sturdy beasts, that could 
cover forty miles in the day. They were splashed, too, 
not the horses only, but the riders, also, as if they had 
ridden far, through streams or boggy ground. The men 
were dressed soberly and well, like poor gentlemen or 
prosperous yeomen ; all three were bearded, and all 
carried arms as could be seen from the flash of the sun 
on their hilts. It was plain, too, that they were not rogues 
or cutters, since each carried his valise on his saddle, as 
well as from their appearance. Our gentlemen, then, 
after passing them with a salute and a good-day, were once 
more about to say good-bye one to the other, and appoint 
a time and place to meet again for the hunting of which 
Robin had spoken to Marjorie, and, indeed, had drawn 
rein — when one of the three strangers was seen to turn his 
horse and come riding back after them, while his friends 
waited. 

The two lads wheeled about to meet him, as was but 
prudent; but while he was yet twenty yards away he lifted 
his hat. He seemed about thirty years old; he had a 
pleasant, ruddy face. 

“ Mr. Babington, I think, sir,” he said. 

“ That is my name,” said Anthony. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


85 


I have heard mass in your house^ sir,” said the stranger. 
“ My name is Garlick.” 

“ Why, yes, sir, I remember — from Tideswell. How do 
you do, Mr. Garlick? This is Mr. Audrey, of Matstead.” 

They saluted one another gravely. 

“ Mr. Audrey is a Catholic, too, I think? ” 

Robin answered that he was. 

“ Then I have news for you, gentlemen. A priest, Mr. 
Simpson, is with us; and will say mass at Tansley next 
Sunday. You would like to speak with his reverence?” 

“ It will give us great pleasure, sir,” said Anthony, 
touching his horse with his heel. 

“ I am bringing Mr. Simpson on his way. He is just 
fresh from Rheims. And Mr. Ludlam is to carry him 
further on Monday,” continued Mr. Garlick as they went 
forward. 

“ Mr. Ludlam? ” 

“ He is a native of Radbourne, and has but just finished 
at Oxford. . . . Forgive me, sir; I will but just ride for- 
ward and tell them.” 

The two lads drew rein, seeing that he wished first to 
tell the others who they were, before bringing them up; 
and a strange little thing fell as Mr. Garlick joined the 
two. For it happened that by now the sun was at his 
setting; going down in a glory of crimson over the edge 
of the high moor; and that the three riders were directly in 
his path from where the two lads waited. Robin, therefore, 
looking at them, saw the three all together on their horses 
with the circle of the sun about them, and a great flood of 
blood-coloured light on every side; the priest was in the 
midst of the three, and the two men leaning towards him 
seemed to be speaking and as if encouraging him strongly. 
For an instant, so strange was the light, so immense the 
shadows on this side spread over the tumbled ground up 


36 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


to the lads themselves, so vast the great vault of illumi- 
nated sky, that it seemed to Robin as if he saw a 
vision. . . . Then the strangeness passed, as Mr. Garlick 
turned away again to beckon to them; and the boy thought 
no more of it at that time. 

They uncovered as they rode towards the priest, and 
bowed low to him as he lifted his hand with a few words 
of Latin; and the next instant they were in talk. 

Mr. Simpson, like his friends, was a youngish man at 
this time, with a kind face and great, innocent eyes that 
seemed to wonder and question. Mr. Ludlam, too, was 
under thirty years old, plainly not of gentleman’s birth, 
though he was courteous and well-mannered. It seemed a 
great matter to these three to have fallen in with young 
Mr. Babington, whose family was so well-known, and whose 
own fame as a scholar, as well as an ardent Catholic, was 
all over the county. 

Robin said little; he was overshadowed by his friend; 
but he listened and watched as the four spoke together, 
and learned that Mr. Simpson had been made priest scarce- 
ly a month before, and was come from Yorkshire, which 
was his own county, to minister in the district of the Peak 
at least for awhile. He heard, too, news from Douay, and 
that the college, it was thought, might move from there 
to another place under the protection of the family of 
De Guise, since her Grace was very hot against Douay, 
whence so many of her troubles proceeded, and was doing 
her best to persuade the Governor of the Netherlands to 
suppress it. However, said Mr. Simpson, it was not yet 
done. 

Anthony, too, in his turn gave the news of the county; 
he spoke of Mr. Fenton, of the FitzHerberts and others 
that were safe and discreet persons; but he said nothing 
at that time of Mr. Audrey of Matstead, at which Robin 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


37 


was glad, since his shame deepened on him every hour, and 
all the more now that he had met with those three men 
who rode so gallantly through the country in peril of lib- 
erty or life itself. Nor did he say anything of the Fitz- 
Herberts except that they might be relied upon. 

“We must be riding,” said Garlick at last; “these 
moors are strange to me; and it will be dark in half an 
hour.” 

“ Will you allow me to be your guide, sir? ” asked An- 
thony of the priest. “ It is all in my road, and you will not 
be troubled with questions or answers if you are in my 
company.” 

“ But what of your friend, sir ? ” 

“ Oh ! Robin knows the country as he knows the flat of 
his hand. We were about to separate as we met you.” 

“ Then we will thankfully accept your guidance, sir,” 
said the priest gravely. 

An impulse seized upon Robin as he was about to say 
good-day, though he was ashamed of it five minutes later as 
a modest lad would be. Yet he followed it now; he leapt 
off his horse and, holding Cecily’s rein in his arm, kneeled 
on the stones with both knees. 

“ Your blessing, sir,” he said to the priest. And Anthony 
eyed him with astonishment. 

Ill 

Robin was moved, as he rode home over the high moors, 
and down at last upon the woods of Matstead, in a manner 
that was new to him, and that he could not altogether under- 
stand. He had met travelling priests before ; -indeed, all 
the priests whose masses he had ever heard, or from whom 
he had received the sacraments, were travelling priests 
who went in peril; and yet this young man, upon whose 


38 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


consecrated hands the oil was scarcely yet dry, moved and 
drew his heart in a manner that he had never yet known. 
It was perhaps something in the priest’s' face that had so 
affected him; for there was a look in it of a kind of sur- 
prised timidity and gentleness, as if he wondered at him- 
self for being so foolhardy, and as if he appealed with 
that same wonder and surprise to all who looked on him. 
His voice, too, was gentle, as if tamed for the s'eminary 
and the altar; and his whole air and manner wholly unlike 
that of some of the priests whom Robin knew — loud-voiced, 
confident, burly men whom you would have sworn to be 
country gentlemen or yeomen living on their estates or 
farms and fearing to look no man in the face. It was 
this latter kind, thought Robin, that was best suited to 
such a life — to riding all day through north-country storms, 
to lodging hardily where they best could, to living such 
a desperate enterprise as a priest’s life then was, with 
prices upon their heads and spies everywhere. It was not 
a life for quiet persons like Mr. Simpson, who, surely, 
would be better at his books in some college abroad, offer- 
ing the Holy Sacrifice in peace and security, and praying 
for adventurers more hardy than himself. Yet here was 
Mr. Simpson just set out upon such an adventure, of his 
own free-will and choice, with no compulsion save that 
of God’s grace. 

There was yet more than an hour before supper-time 
when he rode into the court at last; and Dick Sampson, his 
own groom, came to take his horse from him. 

“ The master’s not been from home to-day, sir,” said 
Dick when Robin asked of his father. 

“ Not been from home.^ ” 

No, sir — not out of the house, except that he was 
walking in the pleasaunce half an hour ago.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


S9 


Robin ran up the steps and through the screens to see if 
his father was still there; but the little walled garden, s'o 
far as he could see it in the light from the hall windows, 
was empty ; and, indeed, it would be strange for any man to 
walk in such a place at such an hour. He wondered, too, 
to hear that his father had not been from home; for on 
all days, except he were ill, he would be about the estate, 
here and there. As he came back to the screens he heard a 
step going up and down in the hall, and on looking in met 
his father face to face. The old man had his hat on his' 
head, but no cloak on his shoulders, though even with the 
fire the place was cold. It was plain that he had been 
walking up and down to warm himself. Robin could not 
make out his face very well, as he stood with his back to a 
torch. 

“ Where have you been, my lad? ” 

“ I went to meet Anthony at one of the Dethick farms, 
sir — John Merton’s.” 

“ You met no one else? ” 

** Yes, sir; Mr, Thomas FitzHerbert was there and 
dined with us. He rode with us, too, a little way.” And 
then as he was on the point of speaking of the priest, he 
stopped himself; and in an instant knew that never again 
must he speak of a priest to his father; his father had 
already lost his right to that. His father looked at him 
a moment, standing with his hands clasped behind his 
back. 

“ Have you heard anything of a priest that is newly 
come to these parts — or coming? ” 

‘‘Yes, sir. I hear mass is to be said ... in the district, 
on Sunday.” 

“ Where is mass to be said ? ” 

Robin drew a long breath, lifted his eyes to his father’s 
and then dropped them again. 


40 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“Did you hear me, sir? Where is mass to be said?’* 

Again Robin lifted and again dropped his eyes. 

“ What is the priest’s name ? ” 

Again there was dead silence. For a son, in those days, 
so to behave towards his father, was an act of very defiance. 
Yet the father said nothing. There the two remained; 
Robin with his eyes on the ground, expecting a storm of 
words or a blow in the face. Yet he knew he could do no 
otherwise; the moment had come at last and he must act 
as he would be obliged always to act hereafter. 

Matters had matured swiftly in the boy’s mind, all un- 
consciously to himself. Perhaps it was the timid air of 
the priest he had met an hour ago that consummated the 
process. At least it was so consummated. 

Then his father turned suddenly on his heel; and the 
son went out trembling. 


CHAPTER III 


I 

“ I WILL speak to you to-night, sir, after supper,” said 
his father sharply a second day later, when Robin, meet- 
ing his father setting out before dinner, had asked him to 
give him an hour’s talk. 

Robin’s mind had worked fiercely and intently since the 
encounter in the hall. His father had sat silent both at 
supper and afterwards, and the next day was the same; 
the old man spoke no more than was necessary, shortly and 
abruptly, scarcely looking his son once in the face, and the 
rest of the day they had not met. It was plain to the boy 
that something must follow his defiance, and he had pre- 
pared all his fortitude to meet it. Yet the second night had 
passed and no word had been spoken, and by the second 
morning Robin could bear it no longer; he must know what 
was in his father’s mind. And now the appointment was 
made, and he would soon know all. His father was absent 
from dinner and the boy dined alone. He learned from 
Dick Sampson that his father had ridden southwards. 

It was not until Robin had sat down nearly half an hour 
later than supper-time that the old man came in. The 
frost was gone; deep mud had succeeded, and the rider 
was splashed above his thighs. He stayed at the fire for 
his boots to be drawn off and to put on his soft-leather 
shoes, while Robin stood up dutifully to await him. Then 
he came forward, took his seat without a word, and called 
for supper. In ominous silence the meal proceeded, and 

41 


42 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


with the same thunderous air, when it was over, his father 
said grace and made his way, followed by his son, into 
the parlour behind. He made no motion at first to pour 
out his wine; then he helped himself twice and left the 
jug for Robin. 

Then suddenly he began without moving his head. 

“ I wish to know your intentions,” he said, with irony so 
s'erious that it seemed gravity. “ I cannot flog you or put 
you to school again, and I must know how we stand to one 
another.” 

Robin was silent. He had looked at his father once or 
twice, but now sat downcast and humble in his place. With 
his left hand he fumbled, out of sight, Mr. Maine’s pair 
of beads. His father, for his part, sat with his feet 
stretched to the fire, his head propped on his hand, not 
doing enough courtesy to his son even to look at him. 

“ Do you hear me, sir ? ” 

“ Yes, sir. But I do not know what to say.” 

“ I wish to know your intentions. Do you mean to 
thwart and disobey me in all matters, or in only those that 
have to do with religion?” 

“ I do not wish to thwart or disobey you, sir, in any 
matters except where my conscience is touched.” (The 
substance of this answer had been previously rehearsed, and 
the latter part of it even verbally.) 

“ Be good enough to tell me what you mean by that.” 

Robin licked his lips carefully and sat up a little in his 
chair. 

“You told me, sir, that it was your intention to leave 
the Church. Then how can I tell you of what priests are 
here, or where mass is to be said? You would not have 
done so to one who was not a Catholic, six months ago.” 

The man sneered visibly. 

“ There is no need,” he said. “ It is Mr. Simpson who 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


43 


is to say mass to-morrow, and it is at Tansley that it will 
be said, at six o’cloOk in the morning. If I choose to tell 
the justices, you cannot prevent it.” (He turned round in 
a flare of anger.) “ Do you think I shall tell the justices.^ ” 

Robin said nothing. 

“Do you think I shall tell the justices? ” roared the old 
man insistently. 

“ No, sir. Now I do not.” 

The other growlecf gently and sank back. 

“ But if you think that I will permit my son to flout me 
to my face in my own hall, and not to trust his own father 
— why, you are immeasurably mistaken, sir. So I ask you 
‘again how far you intend to thwart and disobey me.” 

^ A kind of despair surged up in the boy’s heart — despair 
at the fruitlessness of this ironical and furious sort of talk; 
and with the despair came boldness. 

“ Father, will you let me speak outright, without think- 
ing that I mean to insult you ? I do not ; I swear I do not. 
Will you let me speak, sir? ” 

His father growled again a sort of acquiescence, and 
Robin gathered his forces. He had prepared a kind of 
defence that seemed to him reasonable, and he knew that his 
father was at least just. They had been friends, these two, 
always, in an underground sort of way, which was all that 
the relations of father and son in such days allowed. The 
old man was curt, obstinate, and even boisterous in his 
anger; but there was a kindliness beneath that the boy 
always perceived — a kindliness which permitted the son an 
exceptional freedom of speech, which he used always in the 
last resort and which he knew his father loved to hear him 
use. This, then, was plainly a legitimate occasion for it, 
and he had prepared himself to make the most of it. He 
began formally: 

“ Sir,” he said, “ you have brought me up in the Old 


44 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Faith, sent me to mass, and to the priest to learn my duty, 
and I have obeyed you always. You have taught me that 
a man’s duty to God must come before all else — as our 
Saviour Himself said, too. And now you turn on me, and 
bid me forget all that, and come to church with you. . . . 
It is not for me to say anything to my father about his 
own cons'cience; I must leave that alone. But I am bound 
to speak of mine when occasion rises, and this is one of 
them. ... I should be dishonouring and insulting you, 
sir, if I did not believe you when you said you would turn 
Protestant; and a man who says he will turn Protestant 
has done so already. It was for this reason, then, and no 
other, that I did not answer you the other day ; not because 
I wish to be disobedient to you, but because I must be 
obedient to God. I did not lie to you, as I might have done, 
and say that I did not know who the priest was nor where 
mass was to be said. But I would not answer, because it 
is not right or discreet for a Catholic to speak of these 

things to those who are not Catholics ” 

“ How dare you say I am not a Catholic, sir ! ” 

“ A Catholic, sir, to my mind,” said Robin steadily, is 
one who holds to the Catholic Church and to no other. I 
mean nothing offensive, sir; I mean what I said I meant, 

and no more. It is not for me to condemn ” 

“ I should think not ! ” snorted the old man. 

“ Well, sir, that is my reason. And further ” 

He stopped, doubtful. 

Well, sir — what further?” 

“ Well, I cannot come to the church with you at Easter.” 
His father wheeled round savagely in his chair. 

“ Father, hear me out, and then say what you 
will. ... I say I cannot come with you to church at 
Easter, because I am a Catholic. But I do not wish to 
trouble or disobey you openly. I will go away from home 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


45 


for that time. Good Mr. Barton will cause no trouble; 
he wants nothing but peace. Father, you are not just to 
me. You have taught me too much, or you have not given 
me time enough ” 

Again he broke off, knowing that he had said what he 
did not mean, but the old man was on him like a 
hawk. 

“ Not time enough, you say.^ Well, then ” 

“ No, sir; I did not mean that,” wailed Robin suddenly. 
“ I do not mean that I should change if I had a hundred 
years; I am sure I shall not. But ” 

“ You said, ‘ Not time enough,’ ” said the other medi- 
tatively. “ Perhaps if I give you time ” 

“Father, I beg of you to forget what I said; I 
did not mean to say it. It is not true. But Marjorie 
said ” 

“Marjorie! What has Marjorie to do with it.^” 

Robin found himself suddenly in deep waters. He had 
plunged and found that he could not swim. This was the 
second mistake he had made in saying what he did not 
mean. . . . Again the courage of despair came to him, and 
he struck out further. 

“ I must tell you of that too, sir,” he said. “ Mistress 
Marjorie and I ” 

He stopped, overwhelmed with shame. His father turned 
full round and stared at him. 

“ Go on, sir.” 

Robin seized his glass and emptied it. 

“Well, sir. Mistress Marjorie and I love one another. 
We are but boy and girl, sir ; we know that ” 

Then his father laughed. It was laughter that was at 
once hearty and bitter; and, with it, came the closing of the 
open door in the boy’s heart. As there came out, after it, 
sentence after sentence of scorn and contempt, the bolts, 


46 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


so to say, were shot and the key turned. It might all have 
been otherwise if the elder man had been kind, or if he 
had been sad or disappointed, or even if he had been merely 
angry; but the soreness and misery in the old man’s heart 
— misery at his own acts and words, and at the outrage 
he was doing to his own conscience — turned his judgment 
bitter, and with that bitterness his son’s heart shut tight 
against him. 

“ But boy and girl ! ” sneered the man. “ A couple of 
blind puppies, I would say rather — you with your falcons 
and mare and your other toys, and the down on your chin, 
and your conscience; and she with her white face and her 
mother and her linen-parlour and her beads” — (his charity 
prevailed so far as to hinder him from more outspoken 
contempt) — “ And you two babes have been prattling of 
conscience and prayers together — I make no doubt, and 
thinking yourselves Cecilies and Laurences and all the holy 
martyrs — and all this without a by-your-leave, I dare 
wager, from parent ot father, and thinking yourselves man 
and wife; and you fondling her, and she too modest to be 
fondled, and ” 

The plain truth struck him with sudden splendour, at 
least sufficiently strong to furnish him with a question. 

“And have you told Mistress Marjorie about your sad 
rogue of a father } ” 

Robin, white with anger, held his lips grimly together 
and the wrath blazed in an instant up from the scornful 
old heart, whose very love was turned to gall. 

“ Tell me, sir — I will have it ! ” he cried. 

Robin looked at him with such hard fury in his eyes 
that for a moment the man winced. Then he recovered him- 
self, and again his anger rose to the brim. 

“You need not look at me like that, you hound. Tell 
me, I say ! ” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


47 


“ I will not ! ” shouted Robin_, springing to his feet. 

The old man was up too by now^ with all the anger of 
his son hardened by his dignity. 

You will not.^ ” 

“ No.” 

For a moment the fate of them both still hung in the 
balance. If, even at this instant, the father had remem- 
bered his love rather than his dignity, had thought of the 
past and its happy years, rather than of the blinding, 
swollen present; or, on the other side, if the son had but 
submitted if only for an hour, and obeyed in order that 
he might rule later — ^the whole course might have run 
aright, and no hearts have been broken and no blood shed. 
But neither would yield. There was the fierce northern 
obstinacy in them both ; the gentle birth sharpened its edge ; 
the defiant refusal of the son, the wounding contempt of the 
father not for his son only, but for his son’s love — these 
things inflamed the hearts of both to madness. The father 
seized his ultimate right, and struck his son across the face. 

Then the son answered by his only weapon. 

For a sensible pause he stood there, his fresh face paled 
to chalkiness, except where the print of five fingers slowly 
reddened. Then he made a courteous little gesture, as if 
to invite his father to sit down; and as the other did so, 
slowly and shaking all over, struck at him by careful and 
calculated words, delivered with a stilted and pompous 
air: 

“You have beaten me, sir; so, of course, I obey. Yes, 
I told Mistress Marjorie Manners that my father no longer 
counted himself a Catholic, and would publicly turn Prot- 
estant at Easter, so as to please her Grace and be in 
favour with the Court and with the county justices. And 
I have told Mr. Babington so as well, and also Mr. Thomas 
FitzHerbert. It will spare you the pain, sir, of making any 


48 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


public announcement on the matter. It is always a son’s 
duty to spare his father pain.” 

Then he bowed^ wheeled^ and went out of the room. 

II 

Two hours later Robin was s’till lying completely dressed 
on his bed in the dark. 

It was a plain little chamber where he lay, fireless, yet 
not too cold, since it was wainscoted from floor to ceiling, 
and looked out eastwards upon the pleasaunce, with rooms 
on either side of it. A couple of presses sunk in the walls 
held his clothes and boots; a rush-bottomed chair stood by 
the bed ; and the bed itself, laid immediately on the ground, 
was such as was used in most good houses by all except the 
master and mistress, or any sick members of the family — a 
straw mattress and a wooden pillow. His bows and arrows, 
with a pair of dags or pistols, hung on a rack against the 
wall at the foot of his bed, and a little brass cross en- 
graved with a figure of the Crucified hung over it. It was 
such a chamber as any son of a house might have, who was 
a gentleman and not luxurious. 

A hundred thoughts had gone through his mind since he 
had flung himself down here shaking with passion; and 
these had begun already to repeat themselves, like a turn- 
ing wheel, in his head. Marjorie; his love for her; his 
despair of that love; his father; all that they had been, 
one to the other, in the past; the little, or worse than little, 
that they would be, one to the other, in the future; the 
priest’s face as he had seen it three days ago; what would 
be done at Easter, what later — all these things, coloured 
and embittered now by his own sorrow for his words to 
his father, and the knowledge that he had shamed himself 
when he should have suffered in silence — these things turned 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


49 

continually in his head, and he was too young and too 
simple to extricate one from the other all at once. 

Things had come about in a manner which yesterday he 
would not have thought possible. He had never before 
spoken so to one to whom he owed reverence; neither had 
this one ever treated him so. His father had stood always 
to him for uprightness and justice; he had no more ques- 
tioned these virtues in his father than in God. Words or 
acts of either might be strange or incomprehensible, yet the 
virtues themselves remained always beyond a doubt; and 
now, with the opening of the door which his father’s first 
decision had accomplished, a crowd of questions and judg- 
ments had rushed in, and a pillar of earth and heaven was 
shaken at last. ... It is a dreadful day when for the first 
time to a young man or maiden, any shadow of God, how- 
ever unworthy, begins to tremble. 

He understood presently, however, what an elder man, 
or a less childish, would have understood at once — that 
these things must be dealt with one by one, and that that 
which lay nearest to his hand was his own fault. Even 
then he fought with his conscience; he told himself that 
no lad of spirit could tolerate such insults against his love, 
to say nothing of the injustice against himself that had gone 
before; but, being honest, he presently inquired of what 
spirit such a lad would be — not of that spirit which Mar- 
jorie would approve, nor the gentle-eyed priest he had 
spoken with. . . . 

Well, the event was certain with such as Robin, and he 
was presently standing at the door of his room, his boots 
drawn off and laid aside, listening, with a heart beating in 
his ears to hinder him, for any sound from beneath. He 
did not know whether his father were abed or not. If not, 
he must ask his pardon at once. 


50 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


He went downstairs at last, softly, to the parlour, and 
peeped in. All was dark, except for the glimmer from the 
stove, and his heart felt lightened. Then, as he was cold 
with his long vigil outside his bed, he stirred the embers 
into a blaze and stood warming himself. 

How strange and passionless, he thought, looked this 
room, after the tempest that had raged in it just now. The 
two glasses stood there — his own not quite empty — and the 
jug between them. His father’s chair was drawn to the 
table, as if he were still sitting in it; his own was flung back 
as he had pushed it from him in his passion. There was an 
old print over the stove at which he looked presently — it 
had been his mother’s, and he remembered it as long as his 
life had been — it was of Christ carrying His cross. 

His shame began to increase on him. How wickedly he 
had answered, with every word a wound! He knew that 
the most poisonous of them all were false; he had known 
it even while he spoke them; it was not to curry favour 
with her Grace that his father had lapsed; it was that his 
temper was tried beyond bearing by those continual fines 
and rebuffs; the old man’s patience was gone — that was 
all. And he, his son, had not said one word of comfort or 
strength; he had thought of himself and his own wrongs, 
and being reviled he had reviled again. . . . 

There stood against the wall between the windows a 
table and an oaken desk that held the estate-bills and 
books ; and beside the desk were laid clean sheets of paper, 
an ink-pot, a pounce-box, and three or four feather pens. 
It was here that he wrote, being newly from school, at 
his father’s dictation, or his father sometimes wrote him- 
self, with pain and labour, the few notices or letters that 
were necessary. So he went to this and sat down at it; he 
pondered a little; then he wrote a single line of abject 
regret. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


51 


“ I ask your pardon and God’s, sir, for the wicked words 
I said before I left the parlour. R.” He folded this and 
addressed it with the proper superscription; and left it 
lying there. 


Ill 

It was a strange ride that he had back from Tansley next 
morning after mass. 

Dick Sampson had met him with the horses in the stable- 
court at Matstead a little after four o’clock in the morn- 
ing; and together they had ridden through the pitch dark- 
ness, each carrying a lantern fastened to his stirrup. So 
complete was the darkness, however, and so small and con- 
fined the circle of light cast by the tossing light, that, for 
all they saw, they might have been riding round and round 
in a garden. Now trees showed grim and towering for an 
instant, then gone again; now their eyes were upon the 
track, the pools, the rugged ground, the soaked meadow- 
grass; half a dozen times the river glimmered on their 
right, turbid and forbidding. Once there shone in the 
circle of light the eyes of some beast — pig or stag; seen and 
vanished again. 

But the return journey was another matter; for they 
needed no lanterns, and the dawn rose steadily overhead, 
showing all that they passed in ghostly fashion, up to final 
solidity. 

It resembled, in fact, the dawn of Faith in a soul. 

First from the darkness outlines only emerged, vast and 
sinister, of such an appearance that it was impossible to 
tell their proportions or distances. The skyline a mile 
away, beyond the Derwent, might have been the edge of 
a bank a couple of yards off; the glimmering pool on the 
lower meadow path might be the lighted window of a house 


52 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


across the valley. There succeeded to outlines a kind of 
shaded tint, all worked in gray like a print, clear enough 
to distinguish tree from boulder and sky from water, yet 
not clear enough to show the texture of anything. The third 
stage was that in which colours began to appear, yet flat 
and dismal, holding, it seemed, no light, yet reflecting it; 
and all in an extraordinary cold clearnesis. Nature seemed 
herself, yet struck to dumbness. No breeze stirred the 
twigs overhead or the undergrowth through which they rode. 
Once, as the two, riding a little apart, turned suddenly to- 
gether, up a ravine into thicker woods, they came upon a 
herd of deer, who stared on them without any movement 
that the eye could see. Here a stag stood with two hinds 
beside him; behind, Robin saw the backs and heads of 
others' that lay still. Only the beasts kept their eyes upon 
them, as they went, watching, as if it were a picture only 
that went by. So, by little and little, the breeze stirred like 
a waking man; cocks crew from over the hills one to the 
other; dogs barked far away, till the face of the world 
was itself again, and the smoke from Matstead rose above 
the trees in front. 

Robin had ridden in the dawn an hundred times before; 
yet never before had he so perceived that strange deliber- 
ateness and sleep of the world; and he had ridden, too, 
perhaps twenty times at such an hour, with his father be- 
side him, after mass on some such occasion. Yet it seemed 
to him this time that it was the mass which he had seen, 
and his own solitariness, that had illuminated his eyes. It 
was dreadful to him — and yet it threw him more than ever 
on himself and God — that his father would ride with him 
so no more. Henceforward he would go alone, or with a 
servant only; he would, alone, go up to the door of house 
or barn and rap four times with his riding- whip; alone 
he would pass upstairs through the darkened house to the 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


53 


shrouded room, garret or bed-chamber, where the group 
was assembled, all in silence ; where presently a dark figure 
would rise and light the pair of candles, and then, himself 
a ghost, vest there by their light, throwing huge shadows 
on wainscot and ceiling as his arms went this way and 
that; and then, alone of all that were of blood-relationship 
to him, he would witness the Holy Sacrifice. . . . 

How long that would be so, he did not know. Some- 
thing surely must happen that would prevent it. Or, at 
least, some day, he would ride so with Marjorie, whom he 
had seen this morning across the dusky candle-lit gloom, 
praying in a corner; or, maybe, with her would entertain 
the priest, and open the door to the worshippers who 
streamed in, like bees to a flower-garden, from farm and 
manor and village. He could not for ever ride alone from 
Matstead and meet his father’s silence. 

One thing more, too, had moved him this morning; and 
that, the sight of the young priest at the altar whom he 
had met on the moor. Here, more than ever, was the 
gentle priestliness and innocency apparent. He stood 
there in his red vestments; he moved this way and that; 
he made his gestures; he spoke in undertones, lit only by 
the pair of wax-candles, more Levitical than ever in 
such a guise, yet more unsuited than ever to such exterior 
circumstances. Surely this man should say mass for ever; 
yet surely never again ride over the moors to do it, amidst 
enemies. He was of the strong castle and the chamber, 
not of the tent and the battle. . . . And yet it was of such 
soldiers as these, as well as of the sturdy and the strong, 
that Christ’s army was made. 

It was in broad daylight, though under a weeping sky, 
that Robin rode into the court at Matstead. He shook the 
rain from his cloak within the screens, and stamped to get 


54 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


the mud away; and, as he lifted his hat to shake it, his 
father came in from the pleasaunce. 

Robin glanced up at him, swift and shy, half smiling, 
expecting a word or a look. His father must surely have 
read his little letter by now, and forgiven him. But the 
smile died away again, as he met the old man’s eyes'; they 
were as hard as steel; his clean-shaven lips were set like 
a trap, and, though he looked at his son, it seemed that he 
did not see him. He passed through the screens and went 
down the steps into the court. 

The boy’s heart began to beat so as near to sicken him 
after his long fast and his ride. He told himself that his 
father could not have been into the parlour yet, though 
he knew, even while he thought it, that this was false com- 
fort. He stood there an instant, waiting; hoping that 
even now his father would call to him ; but the strong figure 
passed resolutely on out of sight. 

Then the boy went into the hall, and swiftly through it. 
There on the desk in the window lay the pen he had flung 
down last night, but no more; the letter was gone; and, as 
he turned away, he saw lying among the wood-ashes of the 
cold stove a little crumpled ball. He stooped and drew 
it out. It was his letter, tossed there after the reading; 
his father had not taken the pains to keep it safe, nor even 
to destroy it. 


CHAPTER IV 


I 

The company was already assembled both within and 
without Padley, when Robin rode up from the riverside, 
on a fine, windy morning, for the sport of the day. Per- 
haps a dozen horses stood tethered at the entrance to the 
little court, with a man or two to look after them, for 
the greater part of their riders were already within; and a 
continual coming and going of lads with dogs; falconers 
each with his cadge, or three-sided frame on which sat the 
hawks ; a barking of hounds, a screaming of birds, a clatter 
of voices and footsteps in the court — all this showed that 
the boy was none too early. A man stepped forward to 
take his mare and his hawks; and Robin slipped from 
his saddle and went in. 

Padley Hall was just such a house as would serve a 
wealthy gentleman who desired a small country estate with 
sufficient dignity and not too many responsibilities. It 
stood upon the side of the hill, well set-up above the damps 
of the valley, yet protected from the north-easterly winds 
by the higher slopes, on the tops of which lay Burbage 
Moor, where the hawking was to be held. On the south, 
over the valley, stood out the modest hall and buttery 
(as, indeed, they stand to this day), with a door between 
them, well buttressed in two places upon the falling ground, 
in one by a chimney, in the other by a slope of masonry; 
and behind these buildings stood the rest of the court, 
the stables, the wash-house, the bake-house and such like, 
below ; and, above, the sleeping rooms for the family 

55 


56 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


and the servants. On the first floor^ above the buttery 
and the hall, were situated the ladies’ parlour and chapel; 
for this, at least, Padley had, however little its dignity 
in other matters, that it retained its chapel served in these 
sorrowful days not, as once, by a chaplain, but by what- 
ever travelling priest might be there. 

Robin entered through the great gate on the east side — a 
dark entrance kept by a porter who saluted him — and 
rode through into the court; and here, indeed, was the 
company; for out of the windows of the low hall on his 
left came a babble of tongues, while two or three gentlemen 
with pots in their hands saluted him from the passage 
door, telling him that Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert was within. 
Mr. Fenton was one of these, come over from North Lees, 
where he had his manor, a brisk, middle-aged man, dressed 
soberly and well, with a pointed beard and pleasant, 
dancing eyes. 

“And Mr. John, too, came last night,” he said; “but 
he will not hawk with us. He is ridden from London on 
private matters.” 

It was an exceedingly gay sight on which Robin looked 
as he turned into the hall. It was a low room, ceiled in 
oak and wainscoted half-way up, a trifle dark, since it 
was lighted only by one or two little windows on either 
side, yet warm and hospitable looking; with a great fire 
burning in a chimney on the south side, and perhaps a 
dozen and a half persons sitting over their food and drink, 
since they were dining early to-day to have the longer 
time for sport. 

A voice hailed him as he came in; and he went up to 
pay his respects to Mr. John FitzHerbert, a tall man, 
well past middle-age, who sat with his hat on his head, at 
the centre of the high table, with the arms of Eyre and 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


57 

Fitz Herbert beneath the canopy, all emblazoned, to do 
the honours of the day. 

“You are late, sir, you are late ! ” he cried out genially. 
“ We are just done.” 

Robin saluted him. He liked this man, though he did 
not know him very well; for he was continually about the 
country, now in London, now at Norbury, now at Swin- 
nerton, always occupied with these endless matters of fines 
and recus’ancy. 

Robin saluted him then, and said a word or two; bowed 
to Mr. Thomas, his son, who came up to speak with him; 
and then looked for Marjorie. She sat there, at the corner 
of the table, with Mrs. Fenton at one side, and an empty 
seat on the other. Robin immediately sat down in it, to eat 
his dinner, beginning with the “ gross foods,” according 
to the English custom. There was a piece of Christmas' 
brawn to-day, from a pig fattened on oats and peas, and 
hardened by being lodged (while he lived) on a boarded 
floor; all this was told Robin across the table with par- 
ticularity, while he ate it, and drank, according to etiquette, 
a cup of bastard. He attended to all this zealously, while 
never for an instant was he unaware of the girl. 

They tricked their elders very well, these two innocent 
ones. You would have sworn that Robin looked for another 
place and could not s'ee one, you would have sworn that 
they were shy of one another, and spoke scarcely a dozen 
sentences. Yet they did very well each in the company of 
the other; and Robin, indeed, before he had finished his 
partridge, had conveyed to her that there was news that 
he had, and must give to her before the day was out. 
She looked at him with enough dismay in her face for him 
at least to read it; for she knew by his manner that it 
would not be happy news. 

So, too, when the fruit was done and dinner was over 


58 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


(for they had no opportunity to speak at any length), again 
you would have sworn that the last idea in his mind, as in 
hers, was that he should be the one to help her to her 
saddle. Yet he did so; and he fetched her hawk for her, 
and settled her reins in her hand; and presently he on one 
side of her, with Mr. Fenton on the other side, were riding 
up through Padley chase; and the talk and the laughter 
went up too. 

II 

Up on the high moors, in the f rank-chase, here indeed 
was a day to make sad hearts rejoice. The air was soft, 
as if spring were come before his time; and in the great 
wind that blew continually from the south-west, bearing the 
high clouds swiftly against the blue, ruffling the stiff 
heather-twigs and bilberry beneath — here was wine enough 
for any mourners. Before them, as they went — two riding 
before, with falconers on either side a little behind and the 
lads with the dogs beside them, and the rest in a silent 
line some twenty yards to the rear — stretched the wide, 
flat moor like a tumbled table-cloth, broken here and there 
by groups of wind-tossed beech and oak, backed by the 
tall limestone crags like pillar-capitals of an upper world; 
with here and there a little shallow quarry whence marble 
had been taken for Derby. But more lovely than all 
were the valleys, seen from here, as great troughs up whose 
sides trooped the leafless trees — lit by the streams that 
threw back the sunlit sky from their bosoms; with here a 
mist of smoke blown all about from a village out of sight, 
here the shadow of a travelling cloud that fled as swift 
as the wind that drove it, extinguishing the flash of water 
only to release it again, darkening a sweep of' land only 
to make the sunlight that followed it the more sweet. 

Yet the two saw little of this, dear and familiar as they 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


59 


found it; since, first they rode together, and next, as it 
should be with young hearts, the sport presently began and 
drove all else away. 

The sport was done in this way: 

The two that rode in front selected each from the cadge 
one of his own falcons (it was peregrines that were used 
at the beginning of the day, since they were first after 
partridges), and so rode, carrying his falcon on his wrist, 
hooded, belled, and in the leash, ready to cast off. Imme- 
diately before them went a lad with a couple of dogs to nose 
the game — these also in a leash until they stiffened. Then 
the lad released them and stepped softly back, while the 
riders moved on at a foot’s-pace, and the spaniels behind 
rose on their hind legs, choked by the chain, whimpering, 
fifty yards in the rear. Slowly the dogs advanced, each a 
frozen model of craft and blood-lust, till an instant after- 
wards, with a whir and a chattering like a broken clock, 
the covey whirled from the thick growth underfoot, and 
flashed away northwards; and, a moment later, up went 
the peregrines behind them. Then, indeed, it was sauve 
qui pent, for the ground was full of holes here and there, 
though there were grass-stretches as well on which all 
rode with loose rein, the two whose falcons were sprung 
always in front, according to custom, and the rest in a 
medley behind. Away then went the birds, pursued and 
pursuers, till, like a falling star the falcon stooped, and 
then, maybe, the other a moment later, down upon the 
quarry ; and a minute later there was the falcon back 
again shivering with pride and ecstasy, or all ruffle- 
feathered with shame, back on his master’s wrist, and 
another torn partridge, or maybe two, in the bottom of 
the lad’s bag; and arguments went full pelt, and cries, 
and sometimes sharp words, and faults were found, and 
praise was given, and so, on for another pair. 


60 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! • 


It was but natural that Robin and Marjorie should com- 
pete one against the other, for they were riding together 
and talked together. So presently Mr. Thomas called to 
them, and beckoned them to their places. Robin set aside 
Agnes on to the cadge and chose Magdalen, and Marjorie 
chose Sharpie. The array was set, and all moved forward. 

It was a short chase and a merry one. Two birds rose 
from the heather and flew screaming, skimming low, as 
from behind them moved on the shadows of death, still as 
clouds, with great noiseless sweeps of sickle-shaped wings. 
Behind came the gallopers; Marjorie on her black horse, 
Robin on Cecily, seeming to compete, yet each content if 
either won, each, maybe — or at least Marjorie — desiring 
that the other should win. And the wind screamed past 
them as they went. 

Then came the stoops — together as if fastened by one 
string — faultless and exquisite; and, as the two rode up 
and drew rein, there, side by side on the windy turf, two 
fierce statues of destiny — cruel-eyed, blood-stained on the 
beaks, resolute and suspicious — eyed them motionless, the 
claws sunk deeply through back and head — awaiting re- 
capture. 

Marjorie turned swiftly to the boy as he leaped off. 

“ In the chapel,” she said, “ at Padley.” 

Robin stared at her. Then he understood and nodded 
his head, as Mr. Thomas rode up, his beard all blown 
about by the wind, breathless but congratulatory. 

Ill 

It fell on Robin’s mind with a certain heaviness and 
reproach that it should have been she who should have 
carried in her head all day the unknown news that he was 
to give her, and he who should have forgotten it. He under- 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


61 


stood then a little better of all that he must be to her, 
since, as he turned to her (his head full of hawks, and 
the glory of the shouting wind, and every thought of Faith 
and father clean blown away), it was to her mind that 
the under-thought had leapt, that here was their first, and 
perhaps their last, chance of speaking in private. 

It was indeed their last chance, for the sun already 
stood over Chapel-le-Frith far away to the south-west; and 
they must begin their circle to return, in which the ladies 
should fly their merlins after larks, and there was no hope 
henceforth for Robin. Henceforth she rode with Mrs. Fen- 
ton and two or three more, while the gentlemen who loved 
sport more than courtesy, turned to the left over the 
broken ground to work back once more after partridges. 
And Robin dared no more ride with his love, for fear that 
his company all day with her should be marked. 

It was within an hour of sunset that Robin, riding 
ahead, having lost a hawk and his hat, having fallen into 
a bog-hole, being one mask of mud from head to foot, 
slid from his horse into Dick’s hands and demanded if the 
ladies were back. 

“Yes, sir; they are back half an hour ago. They are 
in the parlour.” 

Robin knew better. “ I shall be riding in ten minutes,” 
he said; “give the mare a mouthful.” 

He limped across the court, and looking behind him to 
see if any saw, and finding the court at that instant empty, 
ran up, as well as he could, the stone staircase that rose 
from the outside to the chapel door. It was unlatched. He 
pushed it open and went in. 

It was a brave thing that the FitzHerberts did in keep- 
ing such a place at all, since the greatest Protestant fool 


62 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


in the valley knew what the little chamber was that had 
the angels carved on the beam-ends^ and the piscina in 
the south wall. Windows looked out every way; through 
those on the south could be seen now the darkening valley 
and the sunlit hills, and, yet more necessary, the road by 
which any travellers from the valley must surely come. 
Within, too, scarcely any pains were taken to disguise the 
place. It was wainscoted from roof to floor — ceiled, floored 
and walled in oak. A great chest stood beneath the little 
east window of two lights, that cried “ Altar ” if any chest 
ever did so. A great press stood against the wooden 
screen that shut the room from the ladies’ parlour next 
door; filled in three shelves with innocent linen, for this 
was the only disguise that the place stooped to put on. 
You could not swear that mass was said there, but you 
could swear that it was a place in which mass would very 
suitably be said. A couple of benches were against the 
press, and three or four chairs stood about the floor. 

Robin saw her against the light as soon as he came in. 
She was still in her blue riding-dress, with the hood on 
her shoulders, and held her whip in her hand; but he 
could see no more of her head than the paleness of her 
face and the gleam on her black hair. 

“Well, then.^ ” she whispered sharply; and then: 
“ Why, what a state you are in ! ” 

“ It’s nothing,” said Robin. “ I rolled in a bog-hole.” 

She looked at him anxiously. 

“ You are not hurt.^ ... Sit down at least.” 

He sat down stiffly, and she beside him, still watching 
to see if he were the worse for his falling. He took her 
hand in his. 

“ I am not fit to touch you,” he said. 

“Tell me the news; tell me quickly.” 

So he told her; of the wrangle in the parlour and what 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


6S 


had passed between his father and him; of his own bitter- 
ness ; and his letter, and the way in which the old man had 
taken it. 

“ He has not spoken to me since/" he said, “ except in 
public before the s'ervants. Both nights after supper he 
has sat silent and I beside him.” 

“ And you have not spoken to him ? ” she asked quickly. 

“ I said something to him after supper on Sunday, and 
he made no answer. He has done all his writing himself. 
I think it is for him to speak now. I should only anger 
him more if I tried it again.” 

She sighed suddenly and swiftly, but said nothing. Her 
hand lay passive in his, but her face was turned now to the 
bright southerly window, and he could see her puzzled eyes 
and her down-turned, serious mouth. She was thinking 
with all her wits, and, plainly, could come to no con- 
clusion. 

She turned to him again. 

“ And you told him plainly that you and I . . . that 
you and I ” 

“ That you and I loved one another ? I told him plainly. 
And it was his contempt that angered me.” 

She sighed again. 

It was a troublesome s'ituation in which these two chil- 
dren found themselves. Here was the father of one of 
them that knew, yet not the parents of the other, who should 
know first of all. Neither was there any promise of secrecy 
and no hope of obtaining it. If she should not tell her 
parents, then if the old man told them, deception would 
be charged against her; and if she should tell them, per- 
haps he would not have done s'o, and so all be brought to 
light too soon and without cause. And besides all this 
there were the other matters, heavy enough before, yet far 


64 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


more heavy now — matters of their hopes for the future, the 
complications with regard to the Religion, what Robin 
should do, what he should not do. 

So they sat there silent, she thinking and he waiting 
upon her thought. 

She sighed again and turned to him her troubled eyes. 

“ My Robin,” she sraid, “ I have been thinking so much 
about you, and I have feared sometimes ” 

She stopped herself, and he looked for her to finish. She 
drew her hand away and stood up. 

“ Oh ! it is miserable ! ” she cried. “ And all might have 
been so happy.” 

The tears suddenly filled her eyes so that they shone like 
flowers in dew. 

He stood up, too, and put his muddy arm about her 
shoulders. (She felt so slight and slender.) 

“ It will be happy,” he said. “ What have you been 
fearing? ” 

She shook her head and the tears ran down. 

“ I cannot tell you yet. . . . Robin, what a holy man 
that travelling priest must be, who said mass on Sun- 
day.” 

The lad was bewildered at her swift changes of thought, 
for he did not yet see the chain on which they hung. He 
srtrove to follow her. 

“ It seemed so to me too,” he said. I think I have 
never seen ” 

“ It seemed so to you too,” she cried. “ Why, what do 
you know of him ? ” 

He was amazed at her vehemence. She had drawn her- 
self clear of his arm and was looking at him full in the 
face. 

“ I met him on the moor,” he said. “ I had some talk 
with him. I got his blessing.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 65 

“ You got his bles^ng! Why, so did I, after the mass, 
when you were gone.” 

“ Then that should join us more closely than ever,” he 
said. 

“ In Heaven, perhaps, but on earth ” She checked 

herself again. “ Tell me what you thought of him, Robin.” 

“ I thought it was strange that such a man as that should 
live such a rough life. If he were in the seminary now, 
safe at Douay ” 

She seemed a shade paler, but her eyes did not flicker. 

“ Yes,” she said. “ And you thought } ” 

“ I thought that it was not that kind of man who should 
fare so hardly. If it were a man like John Merton, who 
is accustomed to such things, or a man like me ” 

Again he stopped; he did not know why. But it was as 
if she had cried out, though she neither spoke nor moved. 

“ You thought that, did you, Robin ” she said presently, 
never moving her eyes from his face. “ I thought so, too.” 

“ But I do not know why we are talking about Mr. Simp- 
son,” said the lad. “ There are other affairs more press- 
ing.” 

“ I am not sure,” said she. 

“Marjorie, my love, what are you thinking about?” 

She had turned her eyes and was looking out through 
the little window. Outside the red sunlight still lay on 
the crags and slopes beyond the deep valley beneath them, 
and her face was bright in the reflected brightness. Yet 
he thought he had never seen her look so serious. She 
turned her eyes back to him as he spoke. 

“ I am thinking of a great many things,” she said. “ I 
am thinking of the Faith and of sorrow and of love.” 

“ My love, what do you mean ? ” 

Suddenly she made a swift movement towards him and 
took him by the lapels. He could see her face close be- 


66 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


neath his, yet it was in shadow again, and he could make 
out of it no more than the shadows of mouth and eyes. 

“ Robin,” she said, “ I cannot tell you unless God tells 
you Himself. I am told that I am too scrupulous' some- 
times. ... I do not know what I think, nor what is right, 
nor what are fancies. . . . But . . . but I know that I 
love you with all my heart . . . and . . . and that I can- 
not bear ” 

Then her face was on his breast in a passion of weeping, 
and his arms were round her, and his lips on her hair. 

IV 

Dick found his master a poor travelling companion as 
they rode home. He made a few respectful remarks as 
to the sport of the day, but he was answered by a wander- 
ing eye and a complete lack of enthusiasm. Mr. Robin 
rode loosely and heavily. Three or four times his mare 
stumbled (and no wonder, after all that she had gone 
through), and he jerked her savagely. 

Then Dick tried another tack and began to speak of the 
company, but with no greater success. He discoursed on 
the riding of Mrs. Fenton, and the peregrine of Mr. 
Thomas, who had distinguished herself that day, and he 
was met by a lack-lustre eye once more. 

Finally he began to speak of the religious gossip of 
the countryside — how it was said that another priest, a 
Mr. Nelson, had been taken in London, as Mr. Maine 
had been in Cornwall; that, it was s'aid again, priests 
would have to look to their lives in future, and not only 
to their liberty; how the priest, Mr. Simpson, was said 
to be a native of Yorkshire, and how he was ridden north- 
wards again, still with Mr. Ludlam. And here he met with 
a little more encouragement. Mr. Robin asked where 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 67 

was Mr. Simpson gone to, and Dick told him he did not 
know, but that he would be back again by Easter, it was 
thought, or, if not, another priest would be in the district. 
Then he began to gossip of Mr. Ludlam; how a man had 
told him that his cousin’s wife thought that Mr. Ludlam 
was to go abroad to be made priest himself, and that 
perhaps Mr. Garlick would go too. 

“ That is the kind of priest we want, sir,” said Dick. 

“ Eh?” 

“ That is the kind of priest we want, sir,” repeated 
Dick solemnly. “ We should do better with natives than 
foreigners. We want priests who know the county and 
the ways of the people — and men too, I think, sir, who 
can ride and know something of sport, and can talk of 
it. I told Mr. Simpson, sir, of the sport we were to have 
to-day, and he seemed to care nothing about it ! ” 

Robin sighed aloud. 

“ I suppose so,” he said. 

“Mr. John looked well, sir,” pursued Dick, and pro- 
ceeded to speak at length of the FitzHerbert troubles, 
and the iniquities of the Queen’s Grace. He was such 
a man as was to be found throughout all England every- 
where at this time — a man whose religion was a part of 
his politics, and none the less genuine for that. He was 
a shrewd man in his way, with the simplicity which be- 
longs to such shrewdness; he disliked the new ways which 
he experienced chiefly in the towns, and put them down, 
not wholly without justice, to the change of which reli- 
gion formed an integral part; he hated the beggars and 
would gladly have gone to see one flogged; and he dis- 
liked the ministers and their sermons and their “ prophe- 
syings ” with all the healthy ardour of prejudice. Once 
in the year did Dick approach the sacraments, and a 
great business he made of it, being unusually morose be- 


68 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


fore them and almost indecently boisterous after them. 
He was feudal to the very heart of him; and it was his 
feudality that made him faithful to his religion as well 
as to his masters, for either of which he would resolutely 
have died. And what in the world he would do when he 
discovered, at Easter, that the objects of his fidelity were 
to take opposite courses, Robin could not conceive. 

As they rode in at last, Robin, who had fallen silent 
again after Dick’s last piece of respectful vehemence, 
suddenly beat his own leg with his whip and uttered an 
inaudible word. It seemed to Dick that the young mas- 
ter had perceived clearly that which plainly had been 
worrying him all the way home, and that he did not 
like it. 


CHAPTER V 


I 

Mr. Manners sat in his parlour ten days after the begin- 
ning of Lent, full of his Sunday dinner and of perplexing 
thoughts all at once. He had eaten well and heartily after 
his week of spare diet, and then, while in high humour 
with all the world, first his wife and then his daughter 
had laid before him such revelations that all the pleasure 
of digestion was gone. It was but three minutes ago that 
Marjorie had fled from him in a torrent of tears, for which 
he could not see himself responsible, since he had done 
nothing but make the exclamations and comments that 
should be expected of a father in such a case. 

The following were the points for his reflection — to begin 
with those that touched him less closely. 

First that his friend Mr. Audrey, whom he had always 
looked upon with reverence and a kind of terror because 
of his hotness in matters of politics and religion, had 
capitulated to the enemy and was to go to church at Easter. 
Mr. ManneVs himself had something of timidity in his 
nature: he was conservative certainly, and practised, when 
he could without bringing himself into open trouble, the 
old religion in which he had been brought up. He, like 
the younger generation, had been educated at Derby Gram- 
mar School, and in his youth had sat with his parents in 
the nave of the old Cluniac church of St. James to hear 
mass. He had then entered his father’s oflice in Derby, 
about the time that the Religious Houses had fallen, and 
had transferred the scene of his worship to St. Peter’s. 
At Queen Mary’s accession, he had stood, with mild but 

69 


70 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


genuine enthusiasm, in his lawyer’s gown, in the train of 
the sheriff who proclaimed her in Derby market-place; 
and stood in the crowd, with corresponding dismay, six 
years later to shout for Queen Elizabeth. Since that 
date, for the first eleven years he had gone, as did other 
Catholics, to his parish church secretly, thankful that there 
was no doubt as to the priesthood of his parson, to hear 
the English prayers; and then, to do him justice, though 
he heard with something resembling consternation the de- 
cision from Rome that compromise must cease and that, 
henceforth, all true Catholics must withdraw themselves 
from the national worship, he had obeyed without even a 
serious moment of consideration. He had always feared 
that it might be so, understanding that delay in the de- 
cision was only caused by the hope that even now the 
breach might not be final or complete; and so was better 
prepared for the blow when it came. Since that time he 
had heard mass when he could, and occasionally even har- 
boured priests, urged thereto by his wife and daughter; 
and, for the rest, still went into Derby for three or four 
days a week to carry on his lawyer’s business, with Mr. 
Biddell his partner, and had the reputation of a sound and 
careful man without bigotry or passion. 

It was, then, a shock to his love of peace and serenity, 
to hear that yet another Catholic house had fallen, and 
that Mr. Audrey, one of his clients, could no longer be 
reckoned as one of his co-religionists. 

The next point for his reflection was that Robin was 
refusing to follow his father’s example; the third, that 
somebody must harbour the boy over Easter, and that, in 
his daughter’s violently expressed opinion, and with his 
wife’s consent, he, Thomas Manners, was the proper person 
to do it. Last, that it was plain that there was something 
between his daughter and this boy, though what that was 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


71 


he had been unable to understand. Marjorie had flown 
suddenly from the room just as he was beginning to put 
his questions. 

It is no wonder, then, that his peace of mind was gone. 
Not only were large principles once more threatened — con- 
siderations of religion and loyalty, but also those small and 
intimate principles which, so far more than great ones, 
agitate the mind of the individual. He did not wish to 
lose a client; yet neither did he wish to be unfriendly to a 
young confessor for the faith. Still less did he wish 
to lose his daughter, above all to a young man whose pros- 
pects seemed to be vanishing. He wondered whether it 
would be prudent to consult Mr. Biddell on the point. . . . 

Pie was a small and precise man in his body and face, as 
well as in his dress; his costume was, of course, of black; 
but he went so far as to wear black buckles, too, on his 
shoes, and a black hilt on his sword. His face was little 
and anxious; his eyebrows were perpetually arched, as if 
in appeal, and he was accustomed, when in deep thought, 
to move his lips as if in a motion of tasting. So, then, he 
sat before his fire to-day after dinner, his elbow on the 
table where his few books lay, his feet crossed before him, 
his cup of drink untouched at his side; and meantime he 
tasted continually with his lips, as if better to appreciate 
the values and significances of the points for his consid- 
eration. 

It would be about half an hour later that the door opened 
once more and Marjorie came in again. 

She was in her fine dress to-day — fine, that is, according 
to the exigencies of the time and place, though sober 
enough if for a town-house — in a good blue silk, rather 
dark, with a little ruff, with lace ruffles at her wrists, and 


72 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


a quilted petticoat^ and silver buckles. For she was a 
gentleman’s daughter, quite clearly, and not a yeoman’s, 
and she must dress to her station. Her face w^as very pale 
and quite steady. She stood opposite her father. 

“ Father,” she said, “ I am very sorry for having be- 
haved like a goose. You were quite right to ask those 
questions, and I have come back to answer them.” 

He had ceased tasting as she came in. He looked at her 
timidly and yet with an attempt at severity. He knew 
what was due from him as a father. But for the present 
he had forgotten what questions they were; his mind had 
been circling so wildly. 

“ You arc right to come back,” he said, “ you should 
not have left me so.” 

“ I am very sorry,” she said again. 

“ Well, then — you tell me that Mr. Robin has nowhere 
else to go.” 

She flushed a little. 

” He has ten places to go to. He has plenty of friends. 
But none have the right that we have. He is a neighbour; 
it was to me, first of all, that he told the trouble.” 

Then he remembered. 

“ Sit down,” he said. “ I must understand much better 
first. I do not understand why he came to you first. Why 
not, if he must come to this house at all — why not to me.^ 
I like the lad; he knows that well enough.” 

He spoke with an admirable dignity, and began to feel 
more happy in consequence. 

She had sat down as he told her, on the other side of the 
table; but he could not see her face. 

“ It would have been better if he had, perhaps,” she 
said. “ But ” 

“Yes} What ‘But’ is that?” 

Then she faced him, and her eyes were swimming. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 73 

Father, he told me first because he loves me, and be- 
cause I love him.” 

He sat up. This? was speaking outright what she had 
only hinted at before. She must have been gathering her 
resolution to say this, while she had been gone. Perhaps 
she had been with her mother. In that case he must be 
cautious. . . . 

“ You mean ” 

“ I mean just what I say. We love one another, and I 
am willing to be his wife if he desires it — and with your 
permission. But ” 

He waited for her to go on. 

“ Another ‘ But ’ ! ” he said presently, though with in- 
creasing mildness. 

“ I do not think he will desire it after a while. And . . . 
and I do not know what I wish. I am torn in two.” 

“ But you are willing.^ ” 

“ I pray for it every night,” she cried piteously. “ And 
every morning I pray that it may not be so.” 

She was staring at him as if in agony, utterly unlike 
what he had looked for in her. He was completely be- 
wildered. 

“I do not understand one word ” 

Then she threw herself at his knees and seized his hands ; 
her face was all torn with pain. 

“ And I cannot explain one word. . . . Father, I am in 
misery. You must pray for me and have patience with 
me. ... I must wait ... I must wait and see what God 
wishes.” 

“ Now, now . . .” 

“ Father, you will trust me, will you not.^ ” 

“ Listen to me. You must tell me this. Do you love 
this boy? ” 

“ Yes, yes.** 


74 COME RACK! COME ROPE! 

“ And you have told him so ? He asked you^ I mean ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

He put her hands firmly from his knee. 

“ Then you must marry him, if matters can be arranged. 
It is what I should wish. But I do not know ” 

“ Father, you do not understand — you do not under- 
stand. I tell you I am willing enough, if he wishes 
it ... if he wishes it.” 

Again she seized his hands and held them. And again 
bewilderment came down on him like a cloud. 

“ Father! you must trust me. I am willing to do every- 
thing that I ought.” (She was speaking firmly and confi- 
dently now.) “If he wishes to marry me, I will marry 
him. I love him dearl 3 ^ . . . But you must say nothing 
to him, not one word. My mother agrees with this. She 
would have told you herself ; but I said that I would — that 
I must be brave. ... I must learn to be brave. ... I can 
tell you no more.” 

He lifted her hands and stood up. 

“ I see that I understand nothing that you say after all,” 
he said with a fine fatherly dignity. “ I must talk with 
your mother.” 


II 

He found his wife half an hour later in the ladies’ par- 
lour, which he entered with an air asr of nothing to say. 
With the same air of disengagement he made sure that 
Marjorie was nowhere in the room, and presently sat 
down. 

Mrs. Manners was well past her prime. She was over 
forty years old and looked over fifty, though she retained 
the air of distinction which Marjorie had derived from 
her; but her looks belied her, and she had not one tithe of 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


75 


the srubtlety and keenness of her daughter. She was, in 
fact, more suited to be wife to her husband than mother 
to her daughter. 

“ You have come about the maid,” she said instantly, 
with disconcerting penetration and frankness. “ Well, I 
know no more than you. She will tell me nothing but 
what she has told you. She has some fiddle-faddle in her 
head, as maids will, but she will have her way with us, I 
suppose.” 

She drew her needle through the piece of embroidery 
which she permitted to herself for an hour on Sundays, 
knotted the thread and bit it off. Then she regarded her 
husband. 

“ I ... I will have no fiddle-faddle in such a matter,” 
he said courageously. “ Maids did not rule their parents 
when I was a boy; they obeyed them or were beaten.” 

His wife laughed shortly; and began to thread her 
needle again. 

He began to explain. The match was in all respects 
suitable. Certainly there were difficulties, springing from 
the very startling events at Matstead, and it well might be 
that a man who would do as Mr. Audrey had done (or, 
rather, proposed to do) might show obstinacy in other 
directions too. Therefore there was no hurry ; the two were 
still very young, and it certainly would be wiser to wait for 
any formal betrothal until Robin’s future disclosed itself. 
But no action of Mr. Audrey’s need delay the betrothal 
indefinitely; if need were, he, Mr. Manners, would make 
proper settlements. Marjorie was an only daughter; in 
fact, she was in some sort an heiress. The Manor would 
be sufficient for them both. As to any other difficulties — 
any of the maidenly fiddle-faddle of which his wife 
had spoken — this should not stand in the way for an 
instant. 


76 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


His wife laughed again in the same exclamatory man- 
ner, when he had done and sat stroking his knees. 

“ Why, you understand nothing about it, Mr. Manners,” 
she said. “Did the maid not tell you she would marry 

him, if he wished it? She told me so.” 

“ Then what is the matter ? ” he asked. 

“ I know no more than you.” 

“ Does he not wish it? ” 

“ She says so.” 

“ Then ” 

“ Yes, that is what I say. And yet that says nothing. 
There is something more.” 

“ Ask her.” 

“ I have asked her. She bids me wait, as she bids you. 

It is no good, Mr. Manners. We must wait the maid’s 

time.” 

He sat, breathing audibly through his nose. 

These two were devoted to their daughter in a manner 
hardly to be described. She was the only one left to them; 
for the others, of whom two had been boys, had died in in- 
fancy or childhood; and, in the event, Marjorie had ab- 
sorbed the love due to them all. She was a strain higher 
than themselves, thought her parents, and so pride in her 
was added to love. The mother had made incredible sacri- 
fices, first to have her educated by a couple of old nuns 
who still survived in Derby, and then to bring her out 
suitably at Babington House last year. The father had 
cordially approved, and joined in the sacrifices, which in- 
cluded an expenditure which he would not have thought 
conceivable. The result was, of course, that Marjorie, 
under cover of a very real dutifulness, ruled both her 
parents completely; her mother acknowledged the domin- 
ion, at least, to herself and her husband; her father pre- 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


77 


tended that he did not; and on this occasion rose, perhaps, 
nearer to repudiating it than ever in his life. It seemed 
to him unbearable to be bidden by his daughter, though 
with the utmost courtesy and affection, to mind his own 
business. 

So he sat and breathed audibly through his" nose, and 
meditated rebellion. 

“ And is the lad to come here for Easter.^ ” he asked at 
last. 

“ I suppose so.” 

And for how long?” 

“ So long as the maid appoints.” 

He breathed louder than ever. 

“ And, Mr. Manners,” continued his wife emphatically, 
** no word must be said to him on the matter. The maid is 
very plain as to that. . . . Oh! we must let her have her 
way.” 

“ Where is s'he gone ? ” 

She nodded with her head to the window. He went to 
it and looked out. 

It was the little walled garden on which he looked, in 
which, if he had but known it, the lad whom he liked had 
kissed the maid whom he loved ; and there walked the maid, 
at this moment with her back to him, going up the central 
path that was bordered with box. The January sun shone 
on her as she went, on her hooded head, her dark cloak 
and her blue dress beneath. He watched her go up, and 
drew back a little as she turned, so that she might not see 
him watching; and as she came down again he saw that she 
held a string of beads in her fingers and was making her 
devotions. She was a good girl. . . . That, at least, was a 
satisfaction. 


78 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Then he turned from the window again. 

“Well?” said his wife. 

“ I suppose it must be as she says.” 

Ill 

It was an hour before sunset when Marjorie came out 
again into the walled garden that had become for her now 
a kind of sanctuary^ and in her hand she carried a letter, 
sealed and inscribed. On the outside the following words 
were written: 

“ To Mr. Robin Audrey. At Matstead. 

“ Haste, haste, haste.” 

Within, the sheet was covered from top to bottom with 
the neat convent-hand she had learnt from the nuns. The 
most of it does not concern us. It began with such words 
as you would expect from a maid to her lover; it continued 
to inform him that her parents were willing, and, indeed, 
desirous, that he should come to them for Easter, and that 
her father would write a formal letter later to invite him; 
it was to be written from Derby, (this conspirator informed 
the other), that it might cause less comment when Mr. 
Audrey saw it, and was to be expressed in terms that would 
satisfy him. Finally, it closed as it had begun, and was 
subscribed by his “ loving friend, M. M.” One paragraph, 
however, is worth attention. 

“ I have told my father and mother, that we love one 
another, my Robin; and that you have asked me to marry 
you, and that I have consented should you wish to do so 
when the time comes. They have consented most willingly; 
and so Jesu have you in His keeping, and guide your mind 
aright.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


79 


It was this paragraph that had cost her half of the hour 
occupied in writing; for it must be expressed just so and 
no otherwise; and its wording had cost her agony lest on 
the one side she should tell him too much, and, on the other, 
too little. And her agony was not yet over; for she had 
to face its sending, and the thought of all that it might 
cost her. She was to give it to one of the men who was to 
leave early for Derby next morning and was to deliver it 
at Matstead on the road; so she brought it out now to 
her sanctuary to spread it, like the old King of Israel, 
before the Lord. . . . 

There was a promise of frost in the air to-night. Under- 
foot the moisture of the path was beginning, not yet to 
stiffen, but rather to withdraw itself; and there was a cold 
clearness in the air. Over the wall beside the house, beyond 
the leafless trees which barred it like prison-bars, burned 
the sunset, deepening and glowing redder every instant. 
Yet she felt nothing of the cold, for a fire was within her as 
she went again up and down the path on which her father 
had watched her walk — a fire of which as yet she could not 
discern the fuel. The love of Robin was there — that she 
knew; and the love of Christ was there — so she thought; 
and yet where the divine and the human passion mingled, 
she could not tell; nor whether, indeed, for certain, it were 
the love of Christ at all, and not a vain imagination of her 
own as to how Christ, in this case, would be loved. Only 
she knew that across her love for Robin a shadow had 
fallen; she could scarcely , tell when it had first come to 
her, and whence. Yet it had so come; it had deepened 
rapidly and strongly during the mass that Mr. Simpson 
had said, and, behold ! in its very darkness there was 
light. And so it had continued till confusion had fallen 
on her which none but Robin could dissolve. It must be 


80 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


his word finally that must give her the answer to her 
doubts; and she must make it easy for him to give it. 
He must know, that is, that srhe loved him more passion- 
ately than ever, that her heart would break if she had not 
her desire; and yet that she would not hold him back if a 
love that was greater than hers could be for him or his 
for her, called him to another wedding than that of which 
either had yet spoken. A broken heart and God’s will 
done would be better than that God’s will should be 
avoided and her own satisfied. 

It was this kind of considerations, therefore, that sent 
her swiftly to and fro, up and down the path under the 
darkening sky — if they can be called considerations which 
beat on the mind like a clamour of shouting; and, as she 
went, she strove to offer all to God: she entreated Him to 
do His will, yet not to break her heart; to break her heart, 
yet not Robin’s; to break both her heart and Robin’s, if 
that Will could not otherwise be served. 

Her lips moved now and again as she went; but her 
eyes were downcast and her face untroubled. . . . 

As the bell in the court rang for supper she went to the 
door and looked through. The man was just saddling up 
in the stable-door opposite. 

“ Jack,” she called, “ here is the letter. Take it safely.” 

Then she went in to supper. 


CHAPTER VI 


I 

It was a great day and a solemn when the squire of Mat- 
stead went to Protestant communion for the first time. 
It was Easter Day, too, but this was less in the considera- 
tion of the village. There was first the minister, Mr. Bar- 
ton, in a condition of excited geniality from an early hour. 
He was observed soon after it was light, by an old man 
who was up betimes, hurrying up the village street in his 
minister’s cassock and gown, presumably on his way to see 
that all preparations were complete for the solemnity. 
His wife was seen to follow him a few minutes later. 

By eight o’clock the inhabitants of the village were 
assembled at points of vantage ; some openly at their doors, 
others at the windows; and groups from the more distant 
farms, decked suitably, stood at all corners; to be greeted 
presently by their minister hurrying back once more from 
the church to bring the communion vessels and the bread 
and wine. The four or five soldiers of the village — a couple 
of billmen and pikemen and a real gunner — stood apart in 
an official group, but did not salute him. He did not speak 
of that which was in the minds of all, but he waved a hand 
to this man, bid a happy Easter to another, and disap- 
peared within his lodgings leaving a wake of excitement 
behind him. 

By a quarter before nine the three bells had begun to 
jangle from the tower; and the crowd had increased largely, 
when Mr. Barton once more passed to the. church in the 
spring sunshine, followed by the more devout who wished 
to pray, and the more timid who feared a disturbance. For 

81 


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COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


sentiments were not wholly on the squire’s side. There was 
first a number of Catholics, openly confessed or at least 
secretly Catholic, though these were not in full force since 
most were gone to Padley before dawn; and there was next 
a certain sentiment abroad, even amongst those who con- 
formed, in favour of tradition. That the squire of Matstead 
should be a Catholic was at least as fundamental an article 
of faith as that the minister should be a Protestant. There 
was little or no hot-gospel here ; men still shook their heads 
sympathetically over the old days and the old faith, which 
indeed had ceased to be the faith of all scarcely twenty 
years ago; and it appeared to the most of them that the 
proper faith of the Quality, since they had before their 
eyes such families as the Babingtons, the Fentons, and 
the FitzHerberts, was that to which their own squire 
was about to say good-bye. It was known, too, publicly 
by now, that Mr. Robin was gone away for Easter, since 
he would not follow his father. So the crowd waited; 
the dogs sunned themselves; and the gunner sat on a wall. 

The bells ceased at nine o’clock, and upon the moment, a 
group came round the churchyard wall, down from the 
field-path and the stile that led to the manor. 

First, walking alone, came the squire, swiftly and steadily. 
His face was flushed a little, but set and determined. He 
was in his fine clothes, ruff and all; his rapier was looped 
at his side, and he carried a stick. Behind him came three 
or four farm servants; then a yeoman and his wife; and 
last, at a little distance, three or four onlookers. 

There was dead silence as he came; the hum of talk 
died at the corners; the bells’ clamour had even now ceased. 
It seemed as if eaoh man waited for his neighbour to speak. 
There was only the sound of the squire’s brisk footsteps 
on the few yards of cobbles that paved the walk up to the 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


83 


lych-gate. At the door of the church, seen beyond him, 
was a crowd of faces. 

Then a man called something aloud from fifty yards 
away; but there was no voice to echo him. The folk just 
watched their lord go by, staring on him as on some strange 
sight, forgetting even to salute him. And so in silence he 
passed on. 

II 

Within, the church murmured with low talking. Already 
two-thirds of it was full, and all faces turned and re-turned 
to the door at every footstep or sound. As the bells ceased 
a sdgh went up, as if a giant drew breath; then, once again, 
the murmuring began. 

The church was as most were in those days. It was but 
a little place, yet it had had in old days great treasures of 
beauty. There had been, until some ten or twelve years 
ago, a carved screen that ran across the chancel arch, with 
the Rood upon it, and St. Mary and St. John on this side 
and that. The high-altar, it was remembered, had been of 
stone throughout, surrounded with curtains on the three 
sides, hanging between posts that had each a carven angel, 
all gilt. Now all was gone, excepting only the painted 
windows (since glass was costly). The chancel was as bare 
as a barn; beneath the whitewash, high over the place 
where the old canopy had hung, pale colours still glim- 
mered through where, twelve years ago, Christ had sat 
crowning His Mother. The altar was gone; its holy slab 
served now as the pavement within the west door, where 
the superstitious took pains to step clear of it. The screen 
was gone; part lay beneath the tower; part had been 
burned; Christ’s Cross held up the roof of the shed where 
the minister kept his horse; the three figures had been 
carted off to Derby to help swell the Protestant bonfire. 


84 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


The projecting stoup to the right of the main door had been 
broken half off. ... In place of these glories there stood 
now^ in the body of the churchy before the chancel-steps^ 
a great table^ such as the rubrics of the new Prayer-Book 
required, spread with a white cloth, upon which now rested 
two tall pewter flagons of wine, a flat pewter plate as 
great as a small dish, and two silver communion-cups’ — all 
new. And to one side of this, in a new wainscoted desk, 
waited worthy Mr. Barton for the coming of his squire — 
a happy man that day; his face beamed in the spring 
sunlight; he had on his silk gown, and he eyed, openly, 
the door through which his new patron was to come. 

Then, without sound or warning, except for the footsteps 
on the paving-stones and the sudden darkening of the sun- 
shine on the floor, there came the figure for which all 
looked. As he entered he lifted his hand to his head, but 
dropped it again; and passed on, sturdy, and (you would 
have said) honest and resolute too, to his seat behind the 
reading-desk. He was met by silence; he was escorted by 
silence; and in silence he sat down. 

Then the waiting crowd surged in, poured this way and 
that, and flowed into the benches. And Mr. Barton’s voice 
was raised in holy exhortation. 

“ At what time soever a sinner doth repent him of his 
sin from the bottom of his heart, I will put all his wicked- 
ness out of remembrance, saith the Lord.” 

Ill 

Those who could best observe (for the tale was handed 
on with the careful accuracy of those who cannot read or 
write) professed themselves amazed at the assured ease of 
the squire. No sound came from the seat half-hidden be- 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


85 


hind the reading-desk where he sat alone; and^ during the 
prayers' when he stood or kneeled, he moved as if he under- 
stood well enough what he was at. A great bound Prayer- 
Book, it was known, rested before him on the book-board, 
and he was observed to turn the pages more than once. 

It was, indeed, a heavy task that Mr. Barton had to do. 
For first there was the morning prayer, with its psalms, 
its lessons and its prayers'; next the Litany, and last the 
communion, in the course of which was delivered one of 
the homilies set forth by authority, especially designed 
for the support of those who were no preachers — ^pre- 
ceded and followed by a psalm. But all was easy to-day 
to a man who had such cause for exultation; his voice 
boomed heartily out; his face radiated his pleasure; and 
he delivered his homily when the time came, with excellent 
emphasis and power — all from the reading-desk, except 
the communion. 

Yet it is to be doubted whether the attention of those 
that heard him was where their pastor would have desired 
it to be; since even to these country-folk the drama of the 
whole was evident. There, seen full when he sat down, 
and in part when he kneeled and stood, was the man who 
hitherto had stood to them for the old order, the old faith, 
the old tradition — the man whose horse’s footsteps had 
been heard, times and again, before dawn, in the village 
street, bearing him to the mystery of the mass; through 
whose gate strangers had ridden, perhaps three or four 
times in the year, to find harbourage — strangers dressed in- 
deed as plain gentlemen or yeomen, yet known, every one of 
them, to be under her Grace’s ban, and to ride in peril 
of liberty if not of life. 

Yet here he sat — a man feared and even loved by some — 
the first of his line to yield to circumstance, and to make 


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COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


peace with his times. Not a man of all who looked on him 
believed him certainly to be that which his actions professed 
him to be; some doubted, especially those who themselves 
inclined to the old ways or secretly followed them; and 
the hearts of these grew sick as they watched. 

But the crown and climax was yet to come. 

The minister finished at last the homily — it was one 
which inveighed more than once against the popish super- 
stitions; and he had chosen it for that reason, to clench 
the bargain, so to say — all in due order; for he was a care- 
ful man and observed his instructions, unlike some of his 
brethren who did as they pleased; and came back again 
to the long north side of the linen-covered table to finish 
the service. 

He had no man to help him ; so he was forced to do it all 
for himself; so he went forward gallantly, first reading a 
set of Scripture sentences while the officers collected first 
for the poor-box, and then, as it was one of the offering- 
days, collected again the dues for the curate. It was 
largely upon these, in such poor parishes as was this, that 
the minister depended and his wife. 

Then he went on to pray for the whole estate of Christ’s 
Church militant here on earth, especially for God’s “ serv- 
ant, Elizabeth our Queen, that under her we may be godly 
and quietly governed”; then came the exhortation, urging 
any who might think himself to be “ a blasphemer of God, 
an hinderer or slanderer of His Word ... or to be in 
malice or envy,” to bewail his sins, and “ not to come to 
this holy table, lest after the taking of that holy sacra- 
ment, the devil enter into him, as he entered into Judas, 
and fill him full of all iniquities.” 

So forward with the rest. He read the Comfortable 
Words; the English equivalent for Sursum Corda with the 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


87 


Easter Preface; then another prayer; and finally rehearsed 
the story of the Institution of the Most Holy Sacrament, 
though without any blessing of the bread and wine, at 
least by any action, since none such was ordered in the 
new Prayer-Book. Then he immediately received the 
bread and wine himself, and stood up again, holding the 
silver plate in his hand for an instant, before proceeding 
to the s'quire’s seat to give him the communion. Mean- 
time, so great was the expectation and interest that it was 
not until the minister had moved from the table that the 
first communicants began to come up to the two white- 
hung benches, left empty till now, next to the table. 

Then those who still watched, and who spread the tale 
about afterwards, saw that the squire did not move from his 
seat to kneel down. He had put off his hat again after 
the homily, and had so sat ever since; and now that the 
minister came to him, still there he sat. 

Now such a manner of receiving was not unknown; yet 
it was the sign of a Puritan; and, so far from the folk 
expecting such behaviour in their squire, they had looked 
rather for Popish gestures, knockings on the breast, signs 
of the cross. 

For a moment the minister stood before the seat, as if 
doubtful what to do. He held the plate in his left hand 
and a fragment of bread in his fingers. Then, as he began 
the words he had to say, one thing at least the people saw, 
and that was that a great flush dyed the old man’s face, 
though he sat quiet. Then, as the minister held out the 
bread, the squire seemed to recover himself; he put out 
his fingers quickly, took the bread sharply and put it into 
his mouth; and so sat again, until the minister brought 
the cup; and this, too, he drank of quickly, and gave it 
back. 


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COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Then, as the communicants, one by one, took the bread 
and wine and went back to their seats, man after man 
glanced up at the squire. 

But the squire sat there, motionless and upright, like a 
figure cut of stone. 


IV 

The court of the manor seemed deserted half an hour 
before dinner-time. There was a Sabbath stillness in the 
air to-day, sweetened, as it were, by the bubbling of bird- 
music in the pleasaunce behind the hall and the high 
woods beyond. On the strips of rough turf before the 
gate and within it bloomed the spring flowers, white and 
blue. A hound lay stretched in the sunshine on the hall 
steps, twitching his ears to keep off a persistent fly. You 
would have sworn that his was the only intelligence in the 
place. Yet at the sound of the iron latch of the gate and 
the squire’s footsteps on the stones, the place, so to say, 
became alive, though in a furtive and secret manner. Over 
the half door of the stable entrance on the left two faces 
appeared — one, which was Dick’s, sullen and angry, the 
other, that of a stable-boy, inquiring and frankly inter- 
ested. This second vanished again as the squire came for- 
ward. A figure of a kitchen-boy, in a white apron, showed 
in the dark doorway that led to the kitchen and hall, and 
disappeared again instantly. From two or three upper 
windows faces peeped and remained fascinated. Only the 
old hound remained still, twitching his ears. 

All this — though there was nothing to be seen but the 
familiar personage of the place, in his hat and cloak and 
sword, walking through his own court on his way to dinner, 
as he had walked a thousand times before. And yet so 
great was the significance of his coming to-day that the 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


89 


very gate behind him was pushed open by sightseers, who 
had followed at a safe distance up the path from the 
church; half a dozen stood there staring, and behind them, 
at intervals, a score more, spread out in groups, all the 
way down to the porter’s lodge. 

The most remarkable feature of all was the silence. 
Not a voice there spoke, even in a whisper. The maids at 
the windows above, Dick glowering over the half door, the 
little group which, far back in the kitchen entrance, peeped 
and rustled, the men at the gate behind, even the boys in 
the path — all these held their tongues for interest and a 
kind of fear. Drama was in the air — the tragedy of seeing 
the squire come back from church for the first time, bear- 
ing himself as he always did, resolute and sturdy, yet 
changed in his significance after a fashion of which none 
of these simple hearts had ever dreamed. 

So,, again in silence, he went up the court, knowing that 
eyes were upon him, yet showing no sign that he knew it; 
he went up the steps with the same assured air, and dis- 
appeared into the hall. 

Then the spell broke up and the bustle began, for it was 
only half an hour to dinner and guests were coming. 

First Dick came out, slashing to the door behind him, 
and strode out to the gate. He was still in his boots, for 
he had ridden to Padley and back since early morning 
with a couple of the maids and the stable-boy. He went 
to the gate of the court, the group dissolving as he came, 
and shut it in their faces. A noise of talking came out of 
the kitchen windows and the clash of a saucepan: the 
maids’ heads vanished from the upper windows. 

Even as Dick shut the gate he heard the sound of horses’ 
hoofs down by the porter’s lodge. The justices were com- 
ing — the two whose names he had heard with amazement 


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COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


last week, as the last corroboration of the incredible rumour 
of his master’s defection. For these were a couple of 
magistrates — harmless men, indeed, as regarded their hos- 
tility to the old Faith — yet Protestants who had sat more 
than once on the bench in Derby to hear cases of recusancy. 
Old Mrs. Marpleden had told him they were to come, and 
that provision must be made for their horses — Mrs. Marple- 
den, the ancient housekeeper of the manor, who had gone 
to school for a while with the Benedictine nuns of Derby 
in King Henry’s days. She had shaken her head and eyed 
him, and then had s'uffered three or four tears to fall down 
her old cheeks. 

Well, they were coming, so Dick must open the gate 
again, and pull the bell for the servants; and this he did, 
and waited, hat in hand. 

Up the little straight road they came, with a servant 
or two behind them — the two harmless gentlemen, chat- 
tering as they rode; and Dick loathed them in his heart. 

“ The squire is within ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

They dismounted, ajud Dick held their stirrups. 

“He has been to church — eh.^” 

Dick made no answer. He feigned to be busy with one 
of the saddles. 

The magistrate glanced at him sharply. 

V 

It was a strange dinner that day. 

Outwardly, again, all was as usual — as it might have 
been on any other Sunday in spring. The three gentlemen 
sat at the high table, facing down the hall; and, since 
there was no reading, and since it was a festival, there 
was no lack of conversation. The servants came in as 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


91 


usual with the dishes' — there was roast lamb to-day, ac- 
cording to old usage, among the rest; and three or four 
wines. A little fire burned against the reredos, for cheer- 
fulness rather than warmth, and the spring sunshine 
flowed in through the clear-glass windows, bright and 
genial. 

Yet the difference was profound. Certainly there was 
no talk, overheard at least by the servants, which might 
not have been on any Sunday for the last twenty years: 
the congratulations and good wishes, or whatever they 
were, must have been spoken between the three in the 
parlour before dinner; and they spoke now of harmless 
usual things — news of the countryside and tales from 
Derby; gossip of affairs of State; of her Grace, who, in a 
manner unthinkable, even by now dominated the imagina- 
tion of England. None of these three had ever seen her; 
the squire had been to London but once in his life, his two 
guests never. Yet they talked of her, of her state-craft, 
of her romanticism; they told little tales, one to the other, 
as if she lived in the county town. All this, then, was 
harmless enough. Religion was not mentioned in the 
hearing of the servants, neither the old nor the new; they 
talked, all three of them, and the squire loudest of all, 
though with pauses of pregnant silence, of such things 
as children might have heard without dismay. 

Yet to the servants who came and went, it was as if 
their master were another man altogether, and his hall 
some unknown place. There was no blessing of himself be- 
fore meat; he said something, indeed, before he sat down, 
but it was unintelligible, and he made no movement with 
his hand. But it was deeper than this . . . and his men 
who had served him for ten or fifteen years looked on him 
as upon a stranger or a changeling. 


CHAPTER VII 


I 

The same Easter Day at Padley was another matter 
altogether. 

As early as five o’clock in the morning the house was 
astir: lights glimmered in upper rooms; footsteps passed 
along corridors and across the court ; parties began to 
arrive. All was done without ostentation, yet without con- 
cealment, for Padley was a solitary place, and had no 
fear, at this time, of a sudden descent of the authorities. 
For form’s sake — scarcely for more — a man kept watch 
over the valley road, and signalled by the flashing of a 
lamp twice every party with which he was acquainted, and 
there were no others than these to signal. A second man 
waited by the gate into the court to admit them. They rode 
and walked in from all round — great gentlemen, such as 
the North Lees family, came with a small retinue; a few 
came alone; yeomen and farm servants, with their women- 
folk, from the Hathersage valley, came for the most part 
on foot. Altogether perhaps a hundred and twenty per- 
sons were within Padley Manor — and the gate secured — 
by six o’clock. 

Meanwhile, within, the priest had been busy since half- 
past four with the hearing of confes'sions. He sat in the 
chapel beside the undecked altar, and they came to him 
one by one. The household and a few of the nearer neigh- 
bours had done their duty in this matter the day before, 
and a good number had already made their Easter duties 
earlier in Lent; so by six o’clock all was finished. 

Then began the bustle. 


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COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


93 


A group of ladies, FitzHerberts and Fentons, entered, so 
s’oon as the priest gave the signal by tapping on the parlour 
wall, bearing all things necessary for the altar; and it was 
astonishing what fine things these were; so that by the 
time that the priest was ready to vest, the place was trans- 
formed. Stuffs and embroideries hung upon the wall about 
the altar, making it seem, indeed, a sanctuary; two tall 
silver candlesticks, used for no other purpose, stood upon 
the linen cloths, under which rested the slate altar-stone, 
taken, with the sacred vessels and the vestments, from one 
of the privy hiding-holes, with whose secret not a living 
being without the house, and not more than two or three 
within, was acquainted. It was rumored that half a dozen 
such places had been contrived within the precincts, two 
of which were great enough to hold two or three men 
at a pinch. 

Soon after six o’clock, then, the altar was ready and 
the priest stood vested. He retired a pace from the altar, 
signed himself with the cross, and with Mr. John Fitz- 
Herbert and his son Thomas on either side of him, began 
the preparation. . . . 

It was a strange and an inspiriting sight that the young 
priest (for it was Mr. Simpson who was saying the mass) 
looked upon as he turned round after the gospel to make 
his little sermon. From end to end the tiny chapel was full, 
packed so that few could kneel and none sit down. The 
two doors were open, and here two faces peered in; and 
behind, rank after rank down the steps and along the little 
passage, the folk stood or knelt, out of sight of both priest 
and altar,>and almost out of sound. The sanctuary was full 
of children — whose round-eyed^ solemn faces looked up at 
him — children who knew little or nothing of what was pass- 
ing, except that they were there to worship God, but who. 


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COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


for all that^ received impressions and associations that 
could never thereafter wholly leave them. The chapel 
was still completely dark^ for the faint light of dawn was 
excluded by the heavy hangings over the windows; and 
there was but the light of the two tapers to show the people 
to one another and the priest to them all. 

It was an inspiriting sight to him then — and one which 
well rewarded him for his labours, since there was not a 
class from gentlemen to labourers who was not represented 
there. The FitzHerberts, the Babingtons, the Fentons — 
these, with their servants and guests, accounted for per- 
haps half of the folk. From the shadow by the door peeped 
out the faces of John Merton and his wife and son; be- 
neath the window was the solemn face of Mr. Manners 
the lawyer, with his daughter beside him, Robin Audrey 
beside her, and Dick his servant behind him. Surely, 
thought the young priest, the Faith could not be in its 
final decay, with such a gathering as this. 

His little sermon was plain enough for the most foolish 
there. He 'spoke of Christ’s Resurrection; of how death 
had no power to hold Him, nor pains nor prison to de- 
tain Him; and he spoke, too, of that mystical life of His 
which He yet lived in His body, which was the Church; 
of how Death, too, stretched forth his hands against Him 
there, and yet had no more force to hold Him than in His 
natural life lived on earth near sixteen hundred years ago; 
how a Resurrection awaited Him here in England as in 
Jerusalem, if His friends would be constant and courage- 
ous, not faithless, but believing. 

“ Even here,” he said, “ in this upper chamber, where 
we are gathered for fear of the Jews, comes Jesus and 
stands in the midst, the doors being shut. Upon this 
altar He will be presently, the Lamb slain yet the Lamb 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


95 

victorious, to give us all that peace which the world can 
neither give nor take away.’’ 

And he added a few words of exhortation and encourage- 
ment, bidding them fear nothing whatever might come upon 
them in the future; to hold fast to the faith once delivered 
to the saints, and so to attain the heavenly crown. He was 
not eloquent, for he was but a young man newly come 
from college, with no great gifts. Yet not a soul there 
looked upon him, on his innocent, wondering eyes and his 
quivering lips, but was moved by what he saw and heard. 

The priest signed himself with the cross, and turned 
again to continue the mass. 

II 

You tell me, then,” said the girl quietly, “ that all is 
as it was with you? God has told you nothing? ” 

Robin was silent. 

Mass had been done an hour or more, and for the most 
part the company was dispersed again, after refreshment 
spread in the hall, except for those who were to stay to 
dinner, and these two had slipped away at last to talk 
together in the woods; for the court was still filled with 
servants coming and going, and the parlours occupied. In 
one the ladies were still busy with the altar furniture; in 
the other the priest sat to talk in private with those who 
were come from a distance; and as for the hall — this, too, 
was in the hands of the servants, since not less than thirty 
gentle folk were to dine there that day. 

Robin had come to Booth’s Edge at the beginning of 
Passion week, and had been there ever since. He had 
refrained, at Marjorie’s entreaty, from speaking of her to 
her parents; and they, too, ruled by their daughter, had 


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COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


held their tongues on the matter. Everything else, how- 
ever, had been disfcussed — the effect of the squire’s apos- 
tasy, the alternatives that presented themselves to the boy, 
the future behaviour of him to his father — all these things 
had been spoken of ; and even the priest called into council 
during the last two or three days. Yet not much had 
come of it. If the worst came to the worst, the lawyer 
had offered the boy a place in his office; Anthony Babing- 
ton had proposed his coming to Dethick if his father turned 
him out; while Robin himself inclined to a third alterna- 
tive — the begging of MS' father to give him a sum of money 
and be rid of him; after which he proposed, with youthful 
vagueness, to set off for London and see what he could do 
there. 

Marjorie, however, had seemed strangely uninterested in 
such proposals. She had listened with patience, bowing 
her head in assent to each, beginning once or twice a word 
of criticism, and stopping herself before she had well begun. 
But she had looked at Robin with more than interest; and 
her mother had found her more than once on her knees 
in her own chamber, in tears. Yet she had said nothing, 
except that she would speak her mind after Easter, 
perhaps. 

And now, it seemed, she was doing it. 

“You have had no other thought?” she said again, 
“ besides thos'e of which you talked with my father ? ” 

They were walking together through the woods, half a 
mile along the Hathersage valley. Beneath them the 
ground fell steeply away, above them it rose as steeply to 
the right. Underfoot the new life of spring was bourgeon- 
ing in mould and grass and undergrowth; for the heather 
did not come down so far as this; and the daffodils and 
celandine and wild hyacinth lay in carpets of yellow and 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


97 


blue, infinitely sweet, beneath the shadow of the trees 
and in the open sunshine. (It was at this time that the 
squire of Matstead was entering the church and hearing 
of the promises of the Lord to the sinner who forsook 
his sinful ways.) 

“ I have had other thoughts,” said the boy slowly, “ but 
they are so wild and foolish that I have determined to 
think no more of them.” 

** You are determined.^ ” 

He bowed his head. 

“You are sure, then, that they are not from God.^” 
asked the girl, torn between fear and hope. He was silent; 
and her heart sank again. 

He looked, indeed, a bewildered boy, borne down by a 
weight that was too heavy for his years. He walked with 
his hands behind his back, his hatless head bowed, regard- 
ing his feet and the last year’s leaves on which he walked. 
A cuckoo across the valley called with the insistence of 
one who will be answered. 

“ My Robin,” said the girl, “ the last thing I would 
have you do is to tell me what you would not. . . . Will 
you not speak to the priest about it? ” 

“ I have spoken to the priest.” 

“ Yes?” 

“ He tells me he does not know what to think.” 

“ Would you do this thing — whatever it may be — if the 
priest told you it was God’s will ? ” 

There was a pause; and then: 

“ I do not know,” said Robin, so low she could scarcely 
hear him. 

She drew a deep breath to reassure herself. 

“ Listen ! ” she said. “ I must say a little of what I 
think; but not all. Our Lord must finish it to you, if it is 
according to His will.” 


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COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


He glanced at her swiftly, and down again, like a 
frightened child. Yet even in that glance he could see that 
it was all that she could do to force herself to speak; and 
by that look he understood for the first time something of 
that which she was suffering. 

“ You know first,” she said, “ that I am promised to you. 
I hold that promise as sacred as anything on earth can be.” 

Her voice shook a little. The boy bowed his head again. 
She went on: 

“ But there are some things,” she said, “ more sacred than 
anything on earth — those things that come from heaven. 
Now, I wish to say this — and then have done with it: that 
if such should be God’s will, I would not hold you for a 
day. We are Catholics, you and I. . . . Your father ” 

Her voice broke; and she stopped; yet without leaving 
go of her hold upon herself. Only she could not speak for 
a moment. 

Then a great fury seized on the boy. It was one of 
those angers that for a while poison the air and turn all 
things sour; yet without obscuring the mind — an anger 
in which the angry one strikes first at that which he loves 
most, because he loves it most, knowing, too, that the 
words he speaks are false. For this, for the present, was 
the breaking-point in the lad. He had suffered torments 
in his soul, ever since the hour in which he had ridden into 
the gate of his own home after his talk in the empty chapel ; 
he had striven to put away from him that idea for which 
the girl’s words had broken an entrance into his heart. 
And now she would give him no peace; she continued to 
press on him from without that which already pained him 
within; so he turned on her. 

“You wish to be rid of me ! ” he cried fiercely. 

She looked at him vtrith her lips parted, her eyes aston- 
ished, and her face gone white. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


99 


What did you say ? ” she said. 

His conscience pierced him like a sword. Yet he set 
his teeth. 

“You wish to be rid of me. You are urging me to leave 
you. You talk to me of God’s will and God’s voice^ and 
you have no pity on me at all. It is an excuse — a blind.” 

He stood raging. The very fact that he knew every 
word to be false made his energy the greater; for he could 
not have said it otherwise. 

“ You think that ! ” she whispered. 

There, then, they stood, eyeing one another. A stranger, 
coming suddenly upon them, would have said it was a 
lovers’ tiff, and have laughed at it. Yet it was a deeper 
matter than that. 

Then there surged over the boy a wave of shame; and 
the truth prevailed. His fair face went scarlet; and his 
eyes filled with tears. He dropped on his knees in the 
leaves, seized her hand and kissed it. 

“ Oh ! you must forgive me,” he said. “ But . . . but I 
cannot do it ! ” 


III 

It was a great occasion in the hall that Easter Day. The 
three tables, which, according to custom, ran along the 
walls, were filled to-day with guests; and a second dinner 
was to follow, scarcely less splendid than the first, for 
their servants as well as for those of the household. The 
floor was spread with new rushes; jugs of Mar^h beer, a 
full month old, as it should be, were ranged down the 
tables; and by every plate lay a posy of flowers. From 
the passage outside came the sound of music. 

The feast began with the reading of the Gospel; at the 
close, Mr. John struck with his hand upon the table as a 
signal for conversation ; the doors opened ; the servants 


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came in, and a babble of talk broke out. At the high 
table the master of the house presided, with the priest on 
his right, Mrs. Manners and Marjorie beyond him; on 
his left, Mrs. Fenton and her lord. At the other two 
tables Mr. Thomas presided at one and Mr. Babington 
at the other. 

The talk was, of course, within the bounds of discretion; 
though once and again sentences were spoken which would 
scarcely have pleased the minister of the parish. For they 
were difficult times in which they lived; and it is no wonder 
at all if bitterness mixed itself with charity. Here was 
Mr. John, for instance, come to Padley expressly for the 
selling of some meadows to meet his fines; here was his 
son Thomas, the heir now, not only to Padley, but to Nor- 
bury, whose lord, his uncle, lay in the Fleet Prison. Here 
was Mr. Fenton, who had suffered the like in the matter of 
fines more than onee. Hardly one of the folk there but had 
paid a heavy price for his conscience; and all the worship 
that was permitted to them, and that by circumstance, and 
not by law, was such as they had engaged in that morning 
with shuttered windows and a sentinel for fear that, too, 
should be silenced. 

They talked, then, guardedly of those things, since the 
servants were in and out continually, and though all pro- 
fessed the same faith as their masters, yet these were 
times that tried loyalty hard. Mr. John, indeed, gave 
news of his brother Sir Thomas, and said how he did; and 
read a letter, too, from Italy, from his younger brother 
Nicholas, who was fled abroad after a year’s prison at 
Oxford; but the climax of the talk came when dinner was 
over, and the muscadel, with the mould- j ellies, had been 
put upon the tables. It was at this moment that Mr. John 
nodded to his son, who went to the door to see the servants 
out, and stood by it to see that none listened. Then his 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! loi 

father struck his hands together for silence, and himself 
spoke. 

“ Mr. Simpson,” he said, “ has something to say to us 
all. It is not a matter to be spoken of lightly, as' you will 
understand presently. . . . Mr. Simpson.” 

The priest looked up timidly, pulling out a paper from 
his pocket. 

“ You have heard of Mr. Nelson? ” he said to the com- 
pany. “Well, he was a priest; and I have news of his 
death. He was executed in London on the third of Feb- 
ruary for his religion. And another man, a Mr. Sherwood, 
was executed a few days afterwards.” 

There was a rustle along the benches. Some there had 
heard of the fact, but no more; some had heard nothing of 
either the man or his death. Two or three faces turned a 
shade paler; and then the silence settled down again. For 
here was a matter that touched them all closely enough; 
since up to now scarcely a priest except Mr. Cuthbert 
Maine had suffered death for his religion; and even of him 
some of the more tolerant said that it was treason with 
which he was charged. They had heard, indeed, of a 
priest or two having been sent abroad into exile for his 
faith; but the most of them thought it a thing incredible 
that in England at this time a man should suffer deatli 
for it. Fines and imprisonment were one thing; to such 
they had become almost accustomed. But death was an- 
other matter altogether. And for a priest! Was it pos- 
sible that the days of King Harry were coming back; and 
that every Catholic henceforth should go in peril of his 
life as well as of liberty? 

The folks settled themselves then in their seats; one or 
two men drank off a glass of wine. 

“ I have heard from a good friend of mine in London,” 
went on the priest, looking at his paper, “ one who followed 


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every step of the trial ; and was present at the death. They 
suffered at Tyburn. . . . However^ I will tell you what he 
says. He is a countryman of mine, from Yorkshire; as 
was Mr. Nelson, too. 

“ ‘ Mr. Nelson was taken in London on the first of 
December last year. He was born at Shelton, and was 
about forty-three years old; he was the son of Sir Nicholas 
Nelson." 

“ So much,’" said the priest, looking up from his paper, 
“ I knew myself. I saw him about four years ago just 
before he went to Douay, and he came back to England as 
a priest, a year and a half after. Mr. Sherwood was not a 
priest; he had been at Douay, too, but as a scholar 
only. . . . Well, we will speak of Mr. Nelson first. This 
is what my friend says.” 

He spread the paper before him on the table; and Mar- 
jorie, looking past her mother, saw that his hands shook as 
he spread it. 

“ ‘ Mr. Nelson," ” began the priest, reading aloud with 
some difficulty, “ ‘ was brought before my lords, and first 
had tendered to him the oath of the Queen’s supremacy. 
This he refused to take, saying that no lay prince could 
have pre-eminence over Christ’s Church; and, upon being 
pressed as to who then could have it, answered, Christ’s 
Vicar only, the successor of Peter. Further, he proceeded 
to say, under questioning, that since the religion of England 
at this time is schismatic and heretical, so also is the 
Queen’s Grace who is head of it. 

“ ‘ This, then, was what was wanted ; and after a delay 
of a few weeks, the same questions being put to him, and 
his answers being the same, he was sentenced to death. He 
was very fortunate in his imprisonment. I had speech with 
him two or three times and was the means, by God’s 
blessing, of bringing another priest to him, to whom he 


Come rack! come ropei 


103 


confessed himself ; and with whom he received the Body of 
Christ a day before he suffered. 

On the third of February, knowing nothing of his 
death being so near, he was brought up to a higher part of 
the prison, and there told he was to suffer that day. His 
kinsmen were admitted to him then, to bid him farewell; 
and afterwards two ministers came to turn him from his 
faith if they could ; but they prevailed nothing.’ ” 

There was a pause in the reading; but there was no 
movement among any that listened. Robin, watching from 
his place at the right-hand table, cold at heart, ran his 
eyes along the faces. The priest was as white as death, 
with the excitement, it seemed, of having to tell such a 
tale. His host beside him seemed downcast and quiet, 
but perfectly composed. Mrs. Manners had her eyes 
closed; Anthony Babington was frowning to himself with 
tight lips; Marjorie he could not see. 

With a great effort the reader resumed : 

** ‘ When he was laid on the hurdle he refused to ask 
pardon of the Queen’s Grace; for, said he, I have never 
yet offended her. I was beside him, and heard it. And he 
added, when those who stood near stormed at him, that it 
was better to be hanged than to burn in hell-fire. 

“ ‘ There was a great concourse of people at Tyburn, 
but kept back by the officers so that they could not come at 
him. When he was in the cart, first he commended his 
spirit into God’s Hands, saying In manus tuas, etc.; then 
he besought all Catholics that were present to pray for him ; 
I saw a good many who signed themselves in the crowd; 
and then he said some prayers in Latin; with the psalms 
Miserere and De Profundis. And then he addressed him- 
self to the people, telling them he died for his religion, 
which was the Catholic Roman one, and prayed, and de- 
sired them to pray, that God would bring all Englishmen 


104 . 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


into it. The crowd cried out at that, exclaiming against 
this Catholic Romish Faith; and so he said what he had to 
say, over again. Then, before the cart was drawn away 
from him to leave him to hang, he asked pardon of all 
them he had offended, and even of the Queen, if he had in- 
deed offended her. Then one of the sheriffs called on the 
hangman to make an end; so Mr. Nelson prayed again in 
silence, and then begged all Catholics that were there once 
more to pray that, by the bitter passion of Christ, his soul 
might be received into everlasting joy. And they did so; 
for as the cart was drawn away a great number cried out, 
and I with them. Lord, receive his soul. 

“ ‘ He was cut down, according to sentence, before he 
was dead, and the butchery begun on him; and when it 
was near over. He moved a little in his pain, and said that 
he forgave the Queen and all that caused or consented to 
his death: and so he died.’ ” 

The priest’s voice, which had shaken again and again, 
grew so tremulous as he ended that those that were at the 
end of the hall could scarcely hear him; and, as it ceased, 
a murmur ran along the seats. 

Mr. FitzHerbert leaned over to the priest and whispered. 
The priest nodded, and the other held up his hand for 
silence. 

“ There is more yet,” he said. 

Mr. Simpson, with a hand that still shook so violently 
that he could hardly hold his glass, lifted and drank off a 
cup of muscadel. Then he cleared his throat, sat up a 
little in his chair, and resumed: 

“ ‘ Next I went to see Mr. Sherwood, to talk to him in 
prison and to encourage him by telling him of the passion 
of the other and how bravely he bore it. Mr. Sherwood 
took it very well, and said that he was afraid of nothing, 
that he had reconciled his mind to it long ago, and had 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


105 


rehearsed it all two or three times^ so that he would know 
what to say and how to hear himself.” 

Mr. FitzHerbert leaned over again to the priest at this 
point and whispered something. Mr. Simpson nodded, and 
raised his eyes. 

“ Mr. Sherwood,” he said, “ was a scholar from Douay, 
but not a priest. He was lodging in the house of a 
Catholic lady, and had procured mass to be said there, and 
it was through her son that he was taken and charged 
with recusancy.” 

Again ran a rustle through the benches. This executing 
of the laity for religion was a new thing in their experience. 
The priest lifted the paper again. 

“ ‘ I found that Mr. Sherwood had been racked many 
times in the Tower, during the six months he was in prison, 
to force him to tell, if they could, where he had heard 
mass and who had said it. But they could prevail nothing. 
Further, no visitor was admitted to him all this time, and 
I was the first and the last that he had; and that though 
Mr. Roper himself had tried to get at him for his relief; 
for he was confined underground and lay in chains and 
filth not to be described. I said what I could to him, but 
he said he needed nothing and was content, though his 
pain must have been very great all this while, what with 
the racking repeated over and over again and the place he 
lay in. 

" I was present again when he suffered at Tyburn, but 
was too far away to hear anything that he said, and 
scarcely, indeed, could see him; but I learned afterwards 
that he died well and courageously, as a Catholic should, 
and made no outcry or complaint when the butchery was 
done on him. 

“ ‘ This, then, is the news I have to send you — sorrowful, 
indeed, yet joyful, too; for surely we may think that they 


106 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


who bore such pains for Christ’s sake with such constancy 
will intercede for us whom they leave behind. I am hoping 
myffelf to come North again before I go to Douay next 
year^ and will see you then and tell you more.’ ” 

The priest laid down the paper, trembling. 

Mr. FitzHerbert looked up. 

“ It will give pleasure to the company,” he said, “ to 
know that the writer of the letter is Mr. Ludlam, from Rad- 
bourne, in this county. As you have heard, he, too, hopes 
by God’s mercy to be made priest and to come back to 
England.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


I 

In the following week Robin went home again. 

The clear weather of Easter had broken, and racing 
clouds, thick as a pall, sped across the sky that had been so 
blue and so cheerful; a wind screamed all day, now high, 
now low, shattering the tender flowers of spring, ruffling 
the Derwent against its current, by which he rode, and 
dashing spatters of rain now and again on his back, tossing 
high and wide the branches under which he went, until the 
woods themselves became as a great melancholy organ, 
making sad music about him. 

When a mind is fluent and uncertain there is no describ- 
ing it. He thought he had come to a decision last week; 
he found that the decision was shattered as soon as made. 
He had talked to the priest; he had resisted Marjorie; and 
yet to neither of them had he put into formal words what 
it was that troubled him. He had asked questions about 
vocation, about the place that circumstance occupies in it, 
of the value of dispositions, fears, scruples, and resistance. 
He had, that is, fingered his wound, half uncovered it, and 
then covered it up again, tormented it, glanced at it and 
then glanced aside; yet the one thing he had not done was 
to probe it — not even to allow another to do so. 

His mind, then, was fluent and distracted; it formed 
images before him, which dissolved as soon as formed; it 
whirled in little eddies; it threw up obscuring foam; it 
ran clear one instant, and the next broke itself in rapids. 
He could neither ease it, nor dam it altogether, and he did 
not know what to do. 


107 


108 


COME BACK! COME ROPE! 


As he rode through Froggatt^ he saw a group of saddle- 
horses standing at the inn door^ but thought nothing of it, 
till a man ran out of the door, still holding his pot, and 
saluted him, and he recognised him to be one of Mr. 
Babington’s men. 

“ My master is within, sir,” he said; “he bade me look 
out for you.” 

Robin drew rein, and as he did so, Anthony, too, came 
out. 

“ Ah ! ” he said. “ I heard you would be coming this 
way. Will you come in? I have something to say to 
you.” 

Robin slipped off, leaving his mare in the hands of 
Anthony’s man, since he himself was riding alone, with his 
valise strapped on behind. 

It was a little room, very trim and well kept, on the 
first floor, to which his friend led him. Anthony shut the 
door carefully and came across to the settle by the window- 
seat. 

“ Well,” he said, “ I have bad news for you, my friend. 
Will you forgive me? I have seen your father and had 
words with him.” 

“ Eh?” 

“ I said nothing to you before,” went on the other, sit- 
ting down beside him. “ I knew you would not have it so, 
but I went to see for myself and to put a question or two. 
He is your father, but he has also been my friend. That 
gives me rights, you see ! ” 

“ Tell me,” said Robin heavily. 

It appeared that Anthony, who was a precise as well as 
an ardent young man, had had scruples about trusting to 
hearsay. Certainly it was rumoured far and wide that the 
squire of Matstead had done as he had said he would do, 
and gone to church; but Mr. Anthony was one of those 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


109 

spirits who will always have things, as they say, from the 
fountain-head; partly from instincts of justice, partly, no 
doubt, for the pleasure of making direct observations to the 
principals concerned. This was what he had done in this 
case. He had ridden, without a word to any, up to Mat- 
stead, and had demanded to be led to the squire; and there 
and then, refusing to sit down till he was answered, had put 
his question. There had been a scene. The squire had 
referred to puppies who wanted drowning, to young sparks, 
and to such illustrative similes; and Anthony, in spite of 
his youthful years, had flared out about turncoats and lick- 
spittles. There had been a very pretty ending: the squire 
had s'houted for his servants and Anthony for his, and the 
two parties had eyed one another, growling like dogs, 
until bloodshed seemed imminent. Then the visitor had 
himself solved the situation by stalking out of the house 
from which the squire was proposing to flog him, mount- 
ing his horse, and with a last compliment or two had rid- 
den away. And here he was at Froggatt on his return 
journey, having eaten there that dinner which no longer 
would be spread for him at Matstead. 

Robin sat silent till the tale was done, and at the end of 
it Anthony was striding about the room, aflame again with 
wrath, gesticulating and raging aloud. 

Then Robin spoke, holding up his hand for moderation. 
“ You will have the whole house here,” he said. “ Well, 
you have cooked my goose for me.” 

” Bah ! that was cooked at Passiontide when you went 
to Booth’s Edge. Do you think he’ll ever have a Papist 
in his house again 

“ Did he sray so ? ” 

“No; but he said enough about his ‘young cub.’ . . . 
Nonsense, man! Come home with me to Dethick. We’ll 
find occupation enough.” 


110 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ Did he say he would not have me home again? 

“ No/’ bawled Anthony. “ I have told you he did not 
say so outright. But he said enough to show he’d have 
no rebels, as he called them, in his Protestant house! 
Dick’s to leave. Did you hear that? ” 

“ Dick!” 

“ Why, certainly. There was a to-do on Sunday, and 
Dick spoke his mind. He’ll come to me, he says, if you 
have no service for him.” 

Robin set his teeth. It seemed as if the pelting blows 
would never cease. 

“ Come with me to Dethick ! ” said Anthony again. “ I 

tell you ” 

“ Well? ” 

“ There’ll be time enough to tell you when you come. 
But I promise you occupation enough.” 

He paused, as if he would say more and dared not. 

“You must tell me more,” said the lad slowly. “ What 
kind of occupation? ” 

Then Anthony did a queer thing. He first glanced at 
the door, and then went to it quickly and threw it open. 
The little lobby was empty. He went out, leaned over 
the stair and called one of his men. 

“ Sit you there,” he said, with the glorious nonchalance 
of a Babington, “ and let no man by till I tell you.” 

He came back, closed the door, bolted it, and then came 
across and sat down by his friend. 

“ Do you think the rest of us are doing nothing? ” he 
whispered. “ Why, I tell you that a dozen of us in Derby- 
shire ” He broke off once more. “ I may not tell 

you,” he said, “ I must ask leave first.” 

A light began to glimmer before Robin’s mind ; the 
light broadened suddenly and intensely, and his whole soul 
leapt to meet it. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE ! 


Ill 


“Do you mean ?” And then he^ too^ broke off, 

well knowing enough, though not all of, what was meant. 

It was quiet here within this room, in spite of the village 
street outside. It was dinner-time, and all were within 
doors or out at their affairs; and except for the stamp of 
a horse now and again, and the scream of the wind in the 
keyhole and between the windows, there was little to hear. 
And in the lad’s soul was a tempest. 

He knew well enough now what his friend meant, though 
nothing of the details; and from the secrecy and excitement 
of the young man’s manner he understood what the char- 
acter of his dealings would likely be, and towards those 
dealings his whole nature leaped as a fish to the watei*. 
Was it possible that this way lay the escape from his own 
torment of conscience.^ Yet he must put a question first, in 
honesty. 

“ Tell me this much,” he said in a low voice. “ Do you 
mean that this . . . this affair will be against men’s 
lives ... or ... or such as even a priest might engage 

inr’ 

Then the light of fanaticism leaped to the eyes of his 
friend, and his face brightened wonderfully. 

“Do they observe the courtesies and forms of law?” 
he snarled. “ Did Nelson die by God’s' law, or did Sher- 
wood — those we know of? I will tell you this,” he said, 
“ and no more unless you pledge yourself to us . . . that 
we count it as warfare — in Christ’s Name yes — but war- 
fare for all that.” 

There then lay the choice before this lad, and surely it 
was as hard a choice as ever a man had to make. On the 
one side lay such an excitement as he had never yet known 
— for Anthony was no merely mad fool — a path, too, that 


112 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


gave him hopes of Marjorie, that gave him an escape from 
home without any more ado, a task besides which he could 
tell himself honestly was, at least, for the cause that lay so 
near to Marjorie’s heart, and was beginning to lie near his 
own. And on the other there was open to him that against 
which he had fought now day after day, in misery — a life 
that had no single attraction to the natural man in him, a 
life that meant the loss of Marjorie for ever. 

The colour died from his lips as he considered this. 
Surely all lay Anthony’s way: Anthony was a gentleman 
like himself ; he would do nothing that was not worthy of 
one. . . . What he had said of warfare was surely sound 
logic. Were they not already at war.^ Had not the Queen 
declared it.^ And on the other side — nothing. Nothing. 
Except that a voice within him on that other side cried 
louder and louder — it seemed in despair: “ This is the 
way; walk in it.” 

“ Come,” whispered Anthony again. 

Robin stood up ; he made as if to speak ; then he silenced 
himself and began to walk to and fro in the little room. 
He could hear voices from the room beneath — Anthony’s 
men talking there no doubt. They might be his men, too, 
at the lifting of a finger — they and Dick. There were the 
horses waiting without; he heard the jingle of a bit as one 
tossed his head. Those were the horses that would go 
back to Dethick and Derby, and, may be, half over Eng- 
land. 

He walked to and fro half a dozen times without speak- 
ing, and, if he had but guessed it, he might have been 
comforted to know that his manhood flowed in upon him, as 
a tide coming in over a flat beach. These instants added 
more years to him than as many months that had gone 
before. His boyhood was passing, since experience and 
conflict, whether it end in victory or defeat, give the years 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


113 


to a man far more than the passing of time. So in God’s 
sright Robin added many inches to the stature of his spirit 
in this little parlour of Froggatt. 

Yet, though he conquered then, he did not know that he 
conquered. He still believed, as he turned at last and 
faced his friend, that his mind was yet to make up, and 
his whisper was harsh and broken. 

“ I do not know,” he whispered. “ I must go home 
first.” 

II 

Dick was waiting by the porter’s lodge as the boy rode 
in, and walked up beside him with his brown hand on the 
horse’s shoulder. Robin could not say much, and, besides, 
his confidence must be tied. 

“ So you are going,” he said softly. 

The man nodded. 

“ I met Mr. Babington. . . . You cannot do better, I 
think, than go to him.” 

It was with a miserable heart that an hour or two later 
he came down to supper. His father was already at table, 
sitting grimly in his place; he made no sign of welcome 
or recognition as his son came in. During the meal itself 
this was of no great consequence, as silence was the cus- 
tom; but the boy’s heart sank yet further as, still without 
a word to him, the squire rose from table at the end and 
went as usual through the parlour door. He hesitated a 
moment before following. Then he grasped his courage 
and went after. 

All things were as usual there — the wine set out and the 
sweetmeats, and his father in his usual place. Yet still 
there was silence. 


114 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Robin began to meditate again^ yet alert for a sign or a 
word. It was in this little room, he understood, that the 
dispute with Anthony had taken place a few hours before, 
and he looked round it, almost wondering that all seemed 
so peaceful. It was this room, too, that was associated 
with so much that was happy in his life — drawn-out hours 
after supper, when his father was in genial moods, or when 
company was there — company that would never come again 
— and laughter and gallant talk went round. There was 
the fire burning in the new stove — that which had so much 
excited him only a year or two ago, for it was then the 
first that he had ever seen: there was the table where he 
had written his little letter ; there was “ Christ carrying 
His Cross.” 

“ So you have sent your friend to insult me, now ! ” 

Robin started. The voice was quiet enough, but full of 
a suppressed force. 

“ I have not, sir. I met Mr. Babington at Froggatt 
on his way back. He told me. I am very sorry for 
it.” 

“And you talked with him at Padley, too, no doubt ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

His father suddenly wheeled round on him. 

“ Do you think I have no sense, then ? Do you think I 
do not know what you and your friends speak of ” 

Robin was srilent. 

He was astonished how little afraid he was. His heart 
beat loud enough in his ears ; yet he felt none of that help- 
lessness that had fallen on him before when his father was 
angry. . . . Certainly he had added to his stature in the 
parlour at Froggatt. 

The old man poured out a glass of wine and drank it. 
His face was flushed high, and he was using more words 
than usual. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


115 


“Well, sir, there are other affairs we must speak of; 
and then no more of them. I wish to know your meaning 
for the time to come. There must be no more fooling this 
way and that, I shall pay no fines for you — mark that! 

If you must stand on your own feet, stand on 

them. ... Now then ! ” 

“ Do you mean, am I coming to church with you, sir ? ” 

“ I mean, who is to pay your fines ? . . . Miss Mar- 

jorie.^ 

Robin set his teeth at the sneer. 

“ I have not yet been fined, sir.’" 

“ Now do you take me for a fool? D’you think they’ll 
let you off? I was speaking ” 

The old man stopped. 

“ Yes, sir? ” 

The other wheeled his face on him. 

“ If you will have it,’’ he said, “ I was speaking to my 
two good friends who dined here on Sunday. I was plain 
with them and they were plain with me. ‘ I shall not 
pay for my brat of a son,’ I said. ‘ Then he must pay for 
himself,’ said they, * unless we lay him by the heels.’ ‘ Not 
in my house, I hope,’ I said; and they laughed at that. 
We were very merry together.” 

“ Yes, sir? ” 

“ Good God! have I a fool for a son? I ask you again. 
Who is it to pay ? ” 

“When will they demand it?” 

“ Why, they may demand it next week, if they will ! 
You were not at church on Sunday ! ” 

“ I was not in Matstead,” said the lad. 

“ But ” 

“ And Mr. Barton will not, I think ” 

The old man struck the table suddenly and violently. 

“ I have dropped words enough,” he cried. “ Where’s 


116 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


the use of it? If you think they will let you alone, I tell 
you they will not. There are to be doings before Christ- 
mas, at latest; and what then? ” 

Then Robin drew his breath sharply between his teeth; 
and knew that one more step had been passed, that had 
separated him from that which he feared. . . . He had 
come just now, still hesitating. Still there had been pass- 
ing through his mind hopes and ideas of what his father 
might do for him. He knew well enough that he would 
never pay the fines, amounting sometimes to as much as 
twenty pounds a month; but he had thought that perhaps 
his father would give him a sum of money and let him 
go to fend for himself; that he might help him even to a 
situation somewhere ; and now hope had died so utterly that 
he did not even dare speak of it. And he had said “ No ” 
to Anthony; he said to himself at least that he had meant 
“ No,” in spite of his hesitation. All doors seemed closing, 
save that which terrified him. . . . 

“ I have thought in my mind ” he began; and 

stopped, for the terror of what was on his tongue grew 
suddenly upon him. 

“ Eh?” 

Robin stood up. 

“ I must have time, sir,” he cried ; “ I must have time. 
Do not press me too much.” 

His father’s eyes shone bright and wrathful. He beat on 
the table with his open hand; but the boy was too quick 
for him. 

“ I beg of you, sir, not to make me speak too soon. It 
may be that you would hate that I should speak more than 
my silence.” 

His whole person was tense and magnetic; his face was 
paler than ever; and it seemed as if his father understood 
enough, at least, to make him hesitate. The two looked 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


117 

at one another; and it was the man’s eyes that fell first. 

“ You may have till Pentecost/’ he said. 

Ill 

It would be at about an hour before dawn that Robin 
awoke for perhaps the third or fourth time that night; for 
the conflict still roared within his soul and would give him 
no peace. And, as he lay there, awake in an instant, staring 
up into the dark, once more weighing and balancing this 
and the other, swayed by enthusiasm at one moment, 
weighed down with melancholy the next — there came to 
him, distinct and clear through the still night, the sound 
of horses’ hoofs, perhaps of three or four beasts, walking 
together. 

Now, whether it was the ferment of his own soul, or the 
work of some interior influence, or indeed, the very inti- 
mation of God Himself, Robin never knew (though he in- 
clined later to the last of these) ; yet it remains as a fact 
that when he heard that sound, so fierce was his curiosity 
to know who it was that rode abroad in company at such 
an hour, he threw off the blankets that covered him, went 
to his window and threw it open. Further, when he had 
listened there a second or two, and had heard the sound 
cease and then break out again clearer and nearer, signify- 
ing that the party was riding through the village, his curi- 
osity grew so intense, that he turned from the window, 
snatched up and put on a few clothes, groping for them as- 
well as he could in the dimness, and was presently speed- 
ing, barefooted, downstairs, telling himself in one breath 
that he was a fool, and in the next that he must reach the 
churchyard wall before the horses did. 

It was but a short run when he had come down into the 
court, by the little staircase that led from the men’s rooms ; 


118 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


the ground was soaking with the rains of yesterday, but 
he cared nothing for that; and, as the riding party turned 
up the little ascent that led beneath the churchyard, Robin, 
on the other side of the wall, was keeping between the 
tombstones to see, and not be seen. 

It was within an hour of dawn, at that time when the 
sky begins to glimmer with rifts above the two horizons, 
showing light enough at least to distinguish faces. It was 
such a light as that in which he had seen the deer looking 
at him motionless as he rode home with Dick. Yet the 
three who now rode up towards him were so muffled about 
the faces that he feared he would not know them. They 
were men, all three of them; and he could make out valises 
strapped to the saddle of each; but, what seemed strange, 
they did not speak as they came; and it appeared as if 
they wished to make no more noise than was necessary, since 
one of them, when his horse set his foot upon the cobble- 
stones beside the lych-gate, pulled him sharply off them. 

And then, just as they rounded the angle of the wall 
where the boy crouched peeping, the man that rode in the 
middle, sighed as if with relief, and pulled the cloak that 
was about him, so that the collar fell from his face, and at 
the same time turned to his companion on his right, and 
said something in a low voice. 

But the boy heard not a word; for he found himself 
staring at the thin-faced young priest from whom he had 
received Holy Communion at Padley. It was but for an 
instant; for the man to whom the priest spoke answered 
in the same low voice, and the other pulled his cloak again 
round his mouth. 

Yet the look was enough. The sight, once more, of this 
servant of God, setting out again upon his perilous travels — 
seen at such a moment, when the boy’s judgment hung in 
the balance (as he thought) ; this one single reminder of 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


119 


what a priest could do in these days of sorrow, and of what 
God called on him to do — the vision, for it was scarcely 
less, all things considered, of a life such as this — presented, 
so to £?ay, in this single scene of a furtive and secret ride 
before the dawn, leaving Padley soon after midnight — this, 
falling on a soul that already leaned that way, finished that 
for which Marjorie had prayed, and against which the lad 
himself had fought so fiercely. 

Half an hour later he stood by his father’s bed, looking 
down on him without fear. 

“ Father,” he said, as the old man stared up at him 
through sleep-ridden eyes, “ I have come to give you my 
answer. It is that I must go to Rheims and be a priest.” 

Then he turned again and went out of the room, without 
waiting. 


CHAPTER IX 


I 

Mrs. Manners was still abed when her daughter came 
in to see her. She lay in the great chamber that gave 
upon the gallery above the hall whence, on either side, 
she could hear whether or no the maids were at their 
business — which was a comfort to her if a discomfort to 
them. And now that her lord was in Derby, she lay here 
all alone. 

The first that she knew of her daughter’s coming was a 
light in her eyes ; and the next was a face, as of a stranger, 
looking at her with great eyes, exalted by joy and pain. 
The light, held below, cast shadows upwards from chin 
and cheek, and the eyes shone in hollows. Then, as she 
sat up, she saw that it was her daughter, and that the maid 
held a paper in her hands; she was in her night-linen, and 
a wrap lay over her shoulders and shrouded her hair. 

“ He is to be a priest,” she whispered sharply. “ Thank 
our Lord with me . . . and . . . and God have mercy on 
me!” 

Then Marjorie was on her knees by the bedside, sobbing 
so that the curtains shook. 

The mother got it all out of her presently — the tale of 
the girl’s heart torn two ways at once. On the pne side 
there was her human love for the lad who had wooed her — 
as hot as fire, and as pure — and on the other that keen 
romance that had made her pray that he might be a priest. 
This second desire had come to her, as sharp as a voice 
that calls, when she had heard of the apostasy of his 

120 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


121 


father; it had seemed to her the riposte that God made to 
the assault upon His honour. The father would no longer 
be His worshipper.^ Then let the son be His priest; and 
so the balance be restored. And so the maid had striven 
with the two loves that, for once, would not agree together 
(as did the man in the Gospels who wished to go and bury 
his father and afterwards to follow his Saviour) ; she had 
not dared to say a word to the lad of anything of this lest 
it should be her will and not God’s that should govern him, 
for she knew very well what a power she had over him; 
but she had prayed God, and begged Robin to pray too 
and to listen to His voice; and now she had her way, and 
her heart was broken with it, she said: 

“ And when I think,” she wailed across her mother’s 
knees, “ of what it is to be a priest; and of the life that he 
will lead, and of the death that he may die ! . . . And it is 
I . . . I . . . who will have sent him to it. Mother ! . . .” 

Mrs. Manners was bethinking herself of a cordial just 
then, and how she knew old Ann would be coming pres- 
ently, and was listening with but half an ear. 

“ It’s not you, my dear,” she said, patting the head be- 
neath her hands. (The wrap was fallen off, and the maid’s 
long hair was all over her shoulders.) “ And now ” 

“But our Lord will take care of him, will He, not 
And not suffer ” 

Mrs. Manners fell to patting her head again. 

“And who brought the message.^” she asked. 

Mrs. Manners was one of those experienced persons who 
are fully persuaded that youth is a disease that must be 
borne with patiently. Time, indeed, will cure it; yet until 
the cure is complete, elders must bear it as well as they can 
and not seem to pay too much attention to it. A rigorous 
and prudent diet; long hours of sleep, plenty of occupation 


122 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


— these are the remedies for the fever. So, while Marjorie 
first began to read the lad’s letter, and then, breaking down 
altogether, thrust it into her mother’s hand, Mrs. Manners 
was searching her memory as to whether any imprudence 
the day before, in food or behaviour, could be the cause of 
this crisis. Love between boys and girls was common 
enough; she herself twenty years ago had suffered from 
the sickness when young John had come wooing her; yet 
a love that could thrust from it that which it loved, was 
beyond her altogether. Either Marjorie loved the lad, or 
she did not, and if she loved him, why did she pray that 
he might be a priest.^ That was foolishness; since priest- 
hood was a bar to marriage. She began to conclude that 
Marjorie did not love him; it had been but a romantic 
fancy; and she was encouraged by the thought. 

“ Madge,” she began, when she had read through the 
confused line or two, in the half-boyish, half-clerkly hand 
of Robin, scribbled and dispatched by the hands of Dick 

scarcely two hours ago. “ Madge ” 

She was about to say something sensible when the maid 
interrupted her again. 

And it is I who have brought it all on him ! ” she 

wailed. “ If it had not been for me ” 

Her mother laid a firm hand on her daughter’s mouth. 
It was not often that she felt the superior of the two; yet 
here was a time, plain enough, when maturity and experi- 
ence must take the reins. 

Madge,” she said, “it is plain you do not love him; 
or you never ” 

The maid started back, her eyes ablaze. 

“ Not love him ! Why ” 

“ That you do not love him truly ; or you would yiever 
have wished this for him. . . . Now listen to me! ” 

She raised an admonitory finger, complacent at last. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


123 


But her speech was not to be made at that time; for her 
daughter swiftly rose to her feet, controlled at last by the 
shock of astonishment. 

“ Then I do not think you know what love is/’ she said 
softly. “ To love is to wish the other’s highest good, as I 
understand it.” 

Mrs. Manners compressed her lips, as might a proph- 
etess before a prediction. But her daughter was before- 
hand with her again. 

“ That is the love of a Christian, at least,” she said. 
Then she stooped, took the letter from her mother’s knees, 
and went out. 

Mrs. Manners sat for a moment as her daughter left her. 
Then she understood that her hour of superiority was gone 
with Marjorie’s hour of weakness; and she emitted a short 
laugh as she took her place again behind the child she 
had borne. 


II 

It was a strange time that Marjorie had until two days 
later, when Robin came and told her all, and how it had 
fallen out. For now, it seemed, she walked on air; now 
in shoes of lead. When she was at her prayers (which was 
pretty often just now), and at other times, when the air 
lightened suddenly about her and the burdens of earth were 
lifted as if another hand were put to them — at those times 
which every interior soul experiences in a period of stress — 
why, then, all was glory, and she saw Robin as transfigured 
and herself beneath him all but adoring. Little visions 
came and went before her imagination. Robin riding, like 
some knight on an adventure,"^ to do Christ’s work; Robin 
at the altar, in his vestments; Robin absolving penitents — 
all in a rosy light of faith and romance. She saw him even 


124 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


on the scaffold, undaunted and resolute, with God’s light 
on his face, and the crowd awed beneath him; she saw 
his soul entering heaven, with all the harps ringing to meet 
him, and eternity begun. . . . And then, at other times, 
when the heaviness came down on her, as clouds upon the 
Derbyshire hills, she understood nothing but that she had 
lost him; that he was not to be hers, but Another’s; that a 
loveless and empty life lay before her, and a womanhood 
that was without its fruition. And it was this latter mood 
that fell on her, swift and entire, when, looking out from 
her window a little before dinner-time, she saw suddenly 
his hat, and Cecily’s head, jerking up the steep path that 
led to the house. 

She fell on her knees by her bedside. 

“ Jesu!” she cried. “ Jesu! Give me strength to meet 
him.” 

Mrs. Manners, too, hearing the horse’s footsteps on 
the pavement a minute later, and Marjorie’s steps going 
downstairs, also looked forth and saw him dismounting. 
She was a prudent woman, and did not stir a finger till 
she heard the bell ringing in the court for the dinner to be 
served. They would have time, so she thought, to arrange 
their attitudes. 

And, indeed, she was right: for it was two quiet enough 
persons who met her as she came down into the hall: Robin 
flushed with riding, yet wholly under his own command — 
bright-eyed, and resolute and natural (indeed, it seemed 
to her that he was more of a man than she had thought 
him). And her daughter, too, was still and strong; a 
trifle paler than she should be, yet that was to be expected. 
At dinner, of course, nothing could be spoken of but the 
most ordinary affairs — in such speaking, that is, as there 
was. It was not till they had gone out into the walled 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


125 


garden and sat them down, all three of them, on the long 
garden-seat beside the rose-beds, that a word was s'aid 
on these new matters. There was silence as they walked 
there, and silence as they sat down. 

“ Tell her, Robin,” said the maid. 

It appeared that matters were not yet as wholly decided 
as Mrs. Manners had thought. Indeed, it seemed to her 
that they were not decided at all. Robin had written to 
Dr. Allen, and had found means to convey his letter to Mr. 
Simpson, who, in his turn, had undertaken to forward it 
at least as far as to London; and there it would await a 
messenger to Douay. It might be a month before it would 
reach Douay, and it might be three or four months, or even 
more, before an answer could come back. Next, the squire 
had taken a course of action which, plainly, had discon- 
certed the lad, though it had its conveniences too. For, 
instead of increasing the old man’s fury, the news his son 
had given him had had a contrary effect. He had seemed 
all shaken, said Robin; he had spoken to him quietly, hold- 
ing in the anger that surely must be there, the boy 
thought, without difficulty. And the upshot of it was that 
no more had been said as to Robin’s leaving Matstead for 
the present — not one word even about the fines. It seemed 
almost as if the old man had been trying how far he could 
push his son, and had recoiled when he had learned the 
effect of his pushing. 

“ I think he is frightened,” said the lad gravely. “ He 
had never thought that I could be a priest.” 

Mrs. Manners considered this in silence. 

“ And it may be autumn before Dr. Allen’s letter comes 
back.^ ” she asked presently. 

Robin said that that was so. 

‘‘ It may even be till winter,” he said. “ The talk among 


126 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


the priests, Mr. Simpson tells me, is all about the removal 
from Douay. It may be made at any time, and who knows 
where they will go.^ ” 

Mrs. Manners glanced across at her daughter, who sat 
motionless, with her hands clasped. Then she was filled 
with the spirit of reasonableness and sense: all this tragic 
to-do about what might never happen seemed to her the 
height of folly. 

Nay, then,” she burst out, “ then nothing may happen 
after all. Dr. Allen may say ‘No;’ the letter may never 
get to him. It may be that you will forget all this in a 
month or two.” 

Robin turned his face slowly towards her, and she 
saw that she had spoken at random. Again, too, it struck 
her attention that his manner seemed a little changed. 
It was graver than that to which she was accustomed. 

“ I shall not forget it,” he said softly. “ And Dr. Allen 
will get the letter. Or, if not he, someone else.” 

There was silence again, but Mrs. Manners heard her 
daughter draw a long breath. 

Ill 

It was an hour later that Marjorie found herself able to 
say that which she knew must be said. 

Robin had lingered on, talking of this and that, though 
he had said half a dozen times that he must be getting 
homewards; and at last, when he rose. Mistress Manners, 
who was still wholly misconceiving the situation, after the 
manner of sensible middle-aged folk, archly and tactfully 
took her leave and disappeared down towards the house, 
advancing some domestic reason for her departure. 

Robin sighed, and turned to the girl, who still sat quiet. 
But as he turned she lifted her eyes to him swiftly. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


127 


Good-bye, Mr. Robin,” she said. 

He pulled himself up. 

“ You understand, do you not.^ ” she said. “ You are 
to be a priest. You must remember that always. You 
are a sort of student already.” 

She could see him pale a little ; his lips tightened. 
For a moment he said nothing; he was taken wholly 
aback. 

“ Then I am not to come here again ” 

Marjorie stood up. She showed no sign of the fierce 
self-control she was using. 

“ Why, yes,” she said. Come as you would come to 
any Catholic neighbours. But no more than that. . . . 
You are to be a priest.” 

The spring air was full of softness and sweetness as they 
stood there. On the trees behind them and on the roses 
in front the budding leaves had burst into delicate green, 
and the copses on all sides sounded with the twitter- 
ing of birds. The whole world, it seemed, was kindling 
with love and freshness. Yet these two had to stand here 
and be cold, one to the other. . . . He was to be a priest; 
that must not be forgotten, and they must meet no more 
on the old footing. That was gone. Already he stood 
among the Levites, at least in intention; and the Lord 
alone was to be the portion of his inheritance and his 
Cup. 

It was a minute before either of them moved, and during 
that minute the maid felt her courage ebb from her like an 
outgoing tide, leaving a desolation behind. It was all that 
she could do not to cry out. 

But when at last Robin made a movement and she had 
to look him in the face, what she saw there braced and 
strengthened her. 


1^8 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ You are riglit, Mistress Marjorie,” he said both gravely 
and kindly. “ I will bid you good-day and be getting to 
my horse.” 

He kissed her gently, as the manner was, and went down 
the path alone. 


PART II 


CHAPTER I 


I 

It was with a sudden leap of her heart that Marjorie, 
looking out of her window at the late autumn landscape, 
her mind still running on the sheet of paper that lay 
before her, saw a capped head, and then a horse’s crest, 
rise over the broken edge of land up which Robin had 
ridden so often two and three years ago. Then she saw 
who was the rider, and laid her pen down again. 

It was two years since the lad had gone to Rheims, and 
it would be five years more, she knew (since he was not over 
quick at his books), before he would return a priest. She 
had letters from him: one would come now and again, 
a month or two sometimes after the date of writing. It 
was only in September that she had had the letter which 
he had written her on hearing of her father^ death, and 
Mr. Manners had died in June. She had written back to 
him then, a discreet and modest letter enough, telling him 
of how Mr. Simpson had read mass over the body before 
it was taken down to Derby for the burying; and telling 
him, too, of her mother’s rheumatics that kept her abed 
now three parts of the year. For the rest, the letters were 
dull enough reading to one who did not understand them: 
the news the lad had to give was of a kind that must be 
disguised, lest the letters should fall into other hands, since 
it concerned the coming and going of priests whose names 
must not appear. Yet, for all that, the letters were laid 
up in a press, and the heap grew slowly. 

It was Mr. Anthony Babington who was come now to 
131 


132 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


see her, and it was his third visit since the summer. But 
she knew well enough what he was come for, since his 
young wife, whom he had married lasrt year, was no use 
to him in such matters: she had lately had a child, too, 
and lived quietly at Dethick with her women. His letters, 
too, would come at intervals, carried by a rider, or some- 
times some farmer’s man on his way home from Derby, and 
these letters, too, held dull reading enough for such as 
were not in the secret. Yet the magistrates at Derby 
would have given a good sum if they could have inter- 
cepted and understood them. 

It was in the upper parlour now that she received him. 
A fire was burning there, as it had burned so long ago, 
when Robin found her fresh from her linen, and Anthony 
sat down in the same place. She sat by the window, with 
the paper in her hands at which she had been writing when 
she first saw him. 

He had news for her, of two kinds, and, like a man, 
gave her first that which she least wished to hear. (She 
had first showed him the paper.) 

“ That was the very matter I was come about,” he said. 
“ You have only a few of the names, I see. Now the rest 
will be over before Christmas, and will all be in London 
together.” 

“ Can you not give me the names ? ” she said. 

“ I could give you the names, certainly. And I will do 
so before I leave; I have them here. But — Mistress Mar- 
jorie, could you not come to London with me? It would 
ease the case very much.” 

“ Why, I could not,” she said. My mother And 

what good would it serve ? ” 

“ This is how the matter stands,” said Anthony, crossing 
his legs. “We have. a dozen priests coming all together — 
at least, they will not travel together, of course; but they 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


133 


will all reach London before Christmas, and there they will 
hold counsel as to who shall go to the districts. Eight 
of them, I have no doubt, will come to the north. There 
are as many priests in the south as are safe at the present 
time — or as are needed. Now if you were to come with me, 
mistress — with a serving-maid, and my sister would be 
with us — we could meet these priests, and speak with them, 
and make their acquaintance. That would remove a great 
deal of danger. We must not have that affair again which 
fell out last month.” 

Marjorie nodded slowly. (It was wonderful how her 
gravity had grown on her these last two years.) 

She knew well enough what he meant. It was the affair 
of the clerk who had come from Derby on a matter con- 
nected with her father’s will about the time she was looking 
for the arrival of a strange priest, and who had been so mis- 
taken by her. Fortunately he had been a well-disposed 
man, with Catholic sympathies, or grave trouble might have 
followed. But this proposal of a visit to London seemed 
to her impossible. She had never been to London in her 
life; it appeared to her as might a voyage to the moon. 
Derby seemed oppressingly large and noisy and danger- 
ous; and Derby, she understood, was scarcely more than 
a village compared to London. 

“ I could not do it,” she said presently. “ I could not 
leave my mother.” 

Anthony explained further. 

It was evident that Booth’s* Edge was becoming more 
and more a harbour for priests, owing largely to Mistress 
Marjorie’s courage and piety. It was well placed; it was 
remote; and it had so far avoided all suspicion. Padley 
certainly served for many, but Padley was nearer the main 
road ; and besides, had fallen under the misfortune of losing 
its master for the very crime of recusancy. It seemed to 


134 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


be all important^ therefore, that the ruling mistress of 
Booth’s Edge, since there was no master, should meet as 
many priests as possible, in order that she might both 
know and be known by them; and here was such an oppor- 
tunity as would not eas'ily occur again. Here were a dozen 
priests, all to be together at one time; and of these, at 
least two-thirds would be soon in the north. How conve- 
nient, therefore, it would be if their future hostess could 
but meet them, learn their plans, and perhaps aid them 
by her counsel. 

But she shook her head resolutely. 

“ I cannot do it,” she said. 

Anthony made a little gesrture of resignation. But, in- 
deed, he had scarcely hoped to persuade her. He knew 
it was a formidable thing to ask of a countrybred maid. 

“ Then we must do as well as we can,” he said. “ In 
any case, I must go. There is a priest I have to meet in 
any case; he is returning as soon as he has bestowed the 
rest.” 

“ Yes?” 

“ His name is Ballard. He is known as Fortescue, and 
passes himself off as a captain. You would never know 
him for a priest.” 

“ He is returning, you say ? ” 

A shade of embarrassment passed over the young man’s 
face, and Marjorie saw that there was something behind 
which she was not to know. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ I have business with him. He is not 
to come over on the mission yet, but only to bring the others 
and see them safe ” 

He broke off suddenly. 

“ Why, I was forgetting,” he cried. “ Our Robin is 
coming too. I had a letter from him, and another for you.” 

He searched in the breast of his coat, and did not see 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


135 


the sudden rigidity that fell on the girl. For a moment 
she sat perfectly still; her heart had leapt to her throat, 
it seemed, and was hammering there. ... But by the 
time he had found the letter she was herself again. 

“ Here it is,” he said. 

She took it; but made no movement to open it. 

“ But he is not to be a priest for five years yet.^ ” she 
said quietly. 

“ No; but they send them sometimes as servants and 
such like, to make a party seem what it is not, as well as to 
learn how to avoid her Grace’s servants. He will go back 
with Mr. Ballard, I think, after three or four weeks. You 
have had letters from him, you told me ^ ” 

She nodded. 

“ Yes; but he said nothing of it, but only how much he 
longed to see England again.” 

“ He could not. It has only just been arranged. He 
has asked to go.” 

There was a silence for a moment. But Anthony did 
not understand what it meant. He had known nothing of 
the affair of his friend and this girl, and he looked upon 
them merely as a pair of acquaintances, above all, when 
he had heard of Robin’s determination to go to Rheims. 
Even the girl saw that he knew nothing, in spite of her 
embarrassment, and the thought that had come to her when 
she had heard of Robin’s coming to London grew on her 
every moment. But she thought she must gain time. 

She stood up. 

“You would like to see his letters?” she asked. “I 
will bring them.” 

And she slipped out of the room. 


136 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


II 

Anthony Babington sat stilly staring up at Icarus in the 
the chariot of the Sun, with something of a moody look on 
his face. 

It was true that he was sincere and active enough in all 
that he did up here in the north for the priests of his 
faith; indeed, he risked both property and liberty on their 
behalf, and was willing to continue doing so as long as 
these were left to him. But it seemed to him sometimes 
that too much was done by spiritual ways and too little by 
temporal. Certainly the priesthood and the mass were 
instruments — and, indeed, the highest instruments in God’s 
hand ; it was necessary to pray and receive the sacraments, 
and to run every risk in life for these purposes. Yet it ap- 
peared to him that the highest instruments were not always 
the best for such rough work. 

It was now over two years ago since the thought had first 
come to him, and since that time he had spared no effort 
to shape a certain other weapon, which, he thought, would 
do the business straight and clean. Yet how difficult it 
had been to raise any feeling on the point. At first he 
had spoken almost freely to this or that Catholic whom he 
could trust; he had endeavoured to win even Robin; and 
yet, with hardly an exception, all had drawn back and 
bidden him be content with a spiritual warfare. One priest, 
indeed, had gone so far as to tell him that he was on dan- 
gerous ground . . . and the one and single man who up 
to the present had seemed on his side, was the very man, 
Mr. Ballard, then a layman, whom he had met by chance 
in London, and who had been the occasion of first suggest- 
ing any such idea. It was, in fact, for the sake of meet- 
ing Ballard again that he was going to London; and, he 
had almost thought from his friend’s last letter, it had 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 1S7 

seemed that it was for the sake of meeting him that Mr. 
Ballard was coming across once more. 

So the .young man sat, with that moody look on his face, 
until Marjorie came back, wondering what news he would 
have from Mr. Ballard, and whether the plan, at present 
only half conceived, was to go forward or be dropped. 
He was willing enough, as has been said, to work for 
priests, and he had been perfectly sincere in his begging 
Marjorie to come with him for that very purpose; but 
there was another work which he thought still more ur- 
gent. . . . However, that was not to be Marjorie’s 
affair. ... It was work for men only. 

“ Here they are,” she said, holding out the packet. 

He took them and thanked her. 

“ I may read them at my leisure.^ I may take them with 
me?” 

She had not meant that, but there was no help for it now. 

“ Why, yes, if you wish,” she said. “ Stay ; let me show 
you which they are. You may not wish to take them all.” 

The letters that the two looked over together in that 
wainscoted parlour at Booth’s Edge lie now in an iron 
case in a certain muniment-room. They are yellow now, 
and the ink is faded to a pale dusky red; and they must 
not be roughly unfolded lest they should crack at the 
creases. But they were fresh then, written on stout white 
paper, each occupying one side of a sheet that was then 
folded three or four times, sealed, and inscribed to “ Mis- 
tress Marjorie Manners ” in the middle, with the word 
“ Haste ” in the lower corner. The lines of writing run 
close together, and the flourishes on one line interweave 
now and again with the tails on the next. 

The first was written within a week of Robin’s coming 


138 COME RACK!. COME ROPE! 

to Rheims, and told the tale of the sailings the long ridesf 
that followed it^ the pleasure the writer found at coming 
to a Catholic country, and something of his adventures 
upon his arrival with his little party. But names and 
places were scrupulously omitted. Dr. Allen was de- 
scribed as “ my host ” ; and, in more than one instance, 
the name of a town was inscribed with a line drawn beneath 
it to indicate that this was a kind of alias. 

The second letter gave some account of the life lived in 
Rheims — ^was a real boy’s letter — and this was more 
difficult to treat with discretion. It related that studies 
occupied a certain part of the day; that “prayers” were 
held at such and such times, and that the sports consisted 
chiefly of a game called “ Cat.” 

So with the eight or nine that followed. The third and 
fourth were bolder, and spoke of certain definitely Catholic 
practices — of prayers for the conversion of England, 
and of mass said on certain days for the same intention. 
It seemed as if the writer had grown confident in his place 
of security. But later, again, his caution returned to him, 
and he spoke in terms so veiled that even Marjorie could 
scarcely understand him. Yet, on the whole, the letters, 
if they had fallen into hostile hands, would have done no 
irreparable injury; they would only have indicated that a 
Catholic living abroad, in some unnamed university or col- 
lege, was writing an account of his life to a Catholic named 
Mistress Marjorie Manners, living in England. 

When the girl had finished her explaining, it was evi- 
dent that there was no longer any need for Anthony to 
take them with him. He said so. 

“ Ah ! but take them, if you will,” cried the girl. 

“ It would be better not. You have them safe here. 
And ” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


139 

Marjorie flushed. She felt that her ruse had been too 
plain. 

“ I would sooner you took them/’ she said. “ You can 
read them at your leisure.” 

So he accepted, and slipped them into his breast with 
what seemed to the girl a lamentable carelessness. Then 
he stood up. 

“ I must go/’ he said. “ And I have never asked after 
Mistress Manners.” 

“ She is abed,” said the girl. “ She has been there this 
past month now.” 

She went with him to the door, for it was not until then 
that she was courageous enough to speak as she had de- 
termined. 

“ Mr. Babington,” she said suddenly. 

He turned. 

“ I have been thinking while we talked,” she said. 

You think my coming to London would be of real 
service? ” 

” I think so. It would be good for you to meet these 
priests before they ” 

“ Then I will come, if my mother gives me leave. When 
will you go? ” 

“ We should be riding in not less than a week from now. 
But, mistress ” 

“No, I have thought of it. I will come — if my mother 
gives me leave.” 

He nodded briskly and brightly. He loved courage, and 
he understood that this decision of hers had required 
courage. 

“ Then my sister shall come for you, and ” 

“ No, Mr. Babington, there is no need. We shall start 
from Derby? ” 

“ Why, yes.” 


140 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ Then my maid and I will ride down there and sleep at 
the inn^ and be ready for you on the day that you appoint.” 

When he was gone at last she went back again to the 
parlour, and sat without moving and without seeing. She 
was in an agony lest she had been unmaidenly in deter- 
mining to go so soon as she heard that Robin was to be 
there. 


CHAPTER II 


I 

Anthony lifted his whip and pointed. 

“ London,” he said. 

Marjorie nodded; she was too tired to speak. 

The journey had taken them some ten days, by easy 
stages; each night they had slept at an inn, except once, 
when they stayed with friends of the Babingtons and had 
heard mass. They had had the small and usual adven- 
tures: a horse had fallen lame; a baggage-horse had bolted; 
they had passed two or three hunting-parties; they had 
been stared at in villages and saluted, and stared at and 
not saluted. Rain had fallen ; the clouds had cleared again ; 
and the clouds had gathered once more and rain had again' 
fallen. The sun, morning by morning, had stood on the 
left, and evening by evening gone down again on the right. 

They were a small party for so long a journey — the' 
three with four servants — two men and two maids: the 
men had ridden armed, as the custom was; one rode in 
front, then came the two ladies with Anthony; then the 
two maids, and behind them the second man. In towns 
and villages they closed up together lest they should be 
separated, and then spread out once more as the long, 
straight track lengthened before them. Anthony and the 
two men-servants carried each a case of dags or pistols 
at the saddle-bow, for fear of highwaymen. But none 
had troubled them, 

A strange dreamlike mood had come down on Marjorie. 
At times it seemed to her in her fatigue as if she had done 

141 


142 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


nothing all her life but ride; at times, as she sat rocking, 
she was living still at home, sitting in the parlour, watch- 
ing her mother; the illusion was so clear and continuous 
that its departure, when her horse stumbled or a com- 
panion spoke, was as an awaking from a dream. At other 
times she looked about her; talked; asked questions. 

She found Mistress Alice Babington a pleasant friend, 
some ten years older than herself, who knew London well, 
and had plenty to tell her. She was a fair woman, well 
built and active ; very fond of her brother, whom she 
treated almost as a mother treats a son; but she seemed 
not to be in his confidence, and even not to wish to be; she 
thought more of his comfort than of his ideals. She was 
a Catholic, of course, but of the quiet, assured kind, and 
seemed unable to believe that anyone could seriously be 
anything else; she seemed completely confident that the 
present distress was a passing one, and that when politics 
had run their course, it would presently disappear. Mar- 
jorie found her as comfortable as a pillow, when she was low 
enough to rest on her. . . . 

Though Marjorie had nodded only when the spires of 
London shone up suddenly in the evening light, a sharp 
internal interest awakened in her. It was as astonishing 
as a miracle that the end should be in sight; the past ten 
days had made it seem to her as if all things which she 
desired must eternally recede. . . . She touched her horse 
unconsciously, and stared out between his ears, sitting up- 
right and alert again. 

It was not a great deal that met the eye, but it was so 
disposed as to suggest a great deal more. Far away to the 
right l^y a faint haze, and in it appeared towers and spires, 
with gleams of sharp white here and there, where some tall 
building rose above the dark roofs. To the left again 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


143 


appeared similar signs of another town — the same haze, 
towers and spires — linked to the first. She knew what 
they were ; she had heard half a dozen times already of the 
two towns that made London — running continuously in one 
long line, however, which grew thin by St. Mary’s Hospital 
and St. Martin’s, she was told — the two troops of houses 
and churches that had grown up about the two centres of 
Court and City, Westminster and the City itself. But it 
was none the less startling to see these with her proper 
eyes. 

Presently, in spite of herself, as she saw the spire of St. 
Clement’s Dane, where she was told they must turn City- 
wards, she began to talk, and Anthony to answer. 

II 

Dark was beginning to fall and the lamps to be lighted as 
they rode in at last half an hour later, across the Fleet 
Ditch, through Ludgate and turned up towards Cheapside. 
They were to stay at an inn where Anthony was accus- 
tomed to lodge when he was not with friends — an inn, 
too, of which the landlord was in sympathy with the old 
ways, and where friends could come and go without suspi- 
cion. It was here, perhaps, that letters would be waiting 
for them from Rheims. 

Marjorie had known Derby only among the greater 
towns, and neither this nor the towns where she had stayed, 
night by night, during the journey, had prepared her in 
the least for the amazing rush and splendour of the City 
itself. A fine, cold rain was falling, and this, she was told, 
had driven half the inhabitants within doors; but even so, 
it appeared to her that London was far beyond her 
imaginings. Beneath here, in the deep and narrow chan- 
nel of houses up which they rode, narrowed yet further 


144 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


by the rows of stalls that were ranged along the pathways 
on either side, the lamps were kindling swiftly, in windows 
as well as in the street; here and there hung great flaring 
torches, and the vast eaves and walls overhead shone in 
the light of the fires where the rich gilding threw it back. 
Beyond them again, solemn and towering, leaned over the 
enormous roofs; and everywhere, it seemed to her fresh 
from the silence and solitude of the country, countless hun- 
dreds of moving faces were turned up to her, from door- 
ways and windows, as well as from the groups that hurried 
along under the shelter of the walls; and the air was full 
of talking and laughter and footsteps. It meant nothing 
to her at present, except inextricable confusion: the gleam 
of arms as a patrol passed by; the important little group 
making its way with torches; the dogs that scuffled in the 
roadway; the party of apprentices singing together loudly, 
with linked arms, plunging up a side street; the hooded 
women chattering together with gestures beneath a low- 
hung roof; the calling, from side to side of the twisting 
street; the bargaining of the sellers at the stalls — all this, 
with the rattle of their own horses’ feet and the jingling 
of the bits, combined only to make a noisy and brilliant 
spectacle without sense or signification. 

Mistress Alice glanced at her, smiling. 

“ You are tired,” she said; “ we are nearly there. That 
is St. Paul’s on the right.” 

Ah! that gave her peace. . . . 

They were turning off from the main street just as her 
friend spoke; but she had time to catch a glimpse of what 
appeared at first sight a mere gulf of darkness, and then, 
as they turned, resolved itself into a vast and solemn pile, 
grey-lined against black. Lights burned far across the wide 
churchyard, as well as in the windows of the high houses 
that crowned the wall, and figures moved against the glow, 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


145 


tiny as dolls. . . . Then she remembered again: how God 
had once been worshipped there indeed, in the great house 
built to His honour, but was no longer so worshipped. Or, 
if it were the srame God, as some claimed, at least the 
character of Him was very differently conceived. . . . 

The “ Red Bull ” again increased her sense of rest; since 
all inns are alike. A curved archway opened on the narrow 
street; and beneath this they rode, to find themselves in 
a paved court, already lighted, surrounded by window- 
pierced walls, and high galleries to right and left. The 
stamping of horses from the further end; and, almost im- 
mediately, the appearance of a couple of hostlers, showed 
where the stables lay. Beside it she could see through the 
door of the brightly-lit bake-house. 

She was terribly stiff, as she found when she limped up 
the three or four stairs that led up to the door of the living- 
part of the inn; and she was glad enough to sit down in 
a wide, low parlour with her friend as Mr. Babington went 
in search of the host. The room was lighted only by a fire 
leaping in the chimney; and she could make out little, 
except that pieces of stuff hung upon the walls, and a long 
row of metal vessels and plates were ranged in a rack be- 
tween the windows. 

“ It is a quiet inn,” said Alice. Marjorie nodded again. 
She was too tired to speak; and almost immediately An- 
thony came back, with a tall, clean-shaven, middle-aged 
man, in an apron, following behind. 

“ It is all well,” he said. “ We can have our rooms 
and the parlour complete. These are the ladies,” he added. 

The landlord bowed a little, with a dignity beyond that 
of his dress. 

“ Supper shall be served immediately, madam,” he said, 
with a tactful impartiality towards them both. 


146 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


They were indeed very pleasant rooms ; and, as Anthony 
had described them to her, were situated towards the back 
of the long, low house, on the first floor, with a private stair- 
case leading straight up from the yard to the parlour itself. 
The sleeping-rooms, too, opened upon the parlour; that 
which the two ladies were to occupy was furthest from 
the yard, for quietness’ sake; that in which Anthony and 
his man would sleep, upon the other side. The windows 
of all three looked straight out upon a little walled garden 
that appeared to be the property of some other house. The 
rooms were plainly furnished, but had a sort of dignity 
about them, especially in the carved woodwork about the 
doors and windows. There was a fireplace in the parlour, 
plainly a recent addition; and a maid rose from kindling 
the logs and turf, as the two ladies came back after wash- 
ing and changing. 

A table was already laid, lit by a couple of candles: it 
was laid with fine napery, and the cutlery was clean and 
solid. Marjorie looked round the room once more; and, 
as she sat down, Anthony came in, still in his mud-splashed 
dress, carrying three or four letters in his hands. 

“ News,” he said. . . . “ I will be with you immedi- 
ately,” and vanished into his room. 

The sense of home was deepening on Marjorie every 
moment. This room in which she sat, might, with a little 
fancy, be thought to resemble the hall at Booth’s Edge. It 
was not so high, indeed; but the plain solidity of the walls 
and woodwork, the aspect of the supper-table, and the quiet, 
so refreshing after the noises of the day, and, above all, 
after the din of their mile-long ride through the City — 
these little things, together with the knowledge that the 
journey was done at last, and that her old friend Robin 
was, if not already come, at least soon to arrive — these 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 147 

little things helped to soothe and reassure her. She won- 
dered how her mother found herself. . . . 

When Anthony came back^ the supper was all laid out. 
He had given orders that no waiting was to be done; 
his own servants would do what was necessary. He had a 
bright and interested face, Marjorie thought; and the in- 
stant they were sat down, she knew the reason of it. 

“We are just in time,” he said. “These letters have 
been lying here for me the last week. They will be here, 
they tell me, by to-morrow night. But that is not all ” 

He glanced round the dusky room; then he laid down 
the knife with which he was carving; and spoke in a yet 
lower voice. 

“ Father Campion is in the house,” he said. 

His sister started. 

“ In the house . . . Do you mean ” 

He nodded mysteriously, as he took up the knife again. 

“ He has been here three or four days. The rooms are 
full in the ... in the usual place. And I have spoken 
with him ; he is coming here after supper. He had already 
supped.” 

Marjorie leaned back in her chair; but she said nothing. 
From beneath in the house came the sound of singing, 
from the tavern parlour where boys were performing 
madrigals. 

It seemed to her incredible that she should presently be 
speaking with the man, whose name was already affecting 
England as perhaps no priest’s name had ever affected it. 
He had been in England, she knew, comparatively a short 
time; yet in that time, his name had run like fire from 
mouth to mouth. To the minds of Protestants there was 
something almost diabolical about the man; he was here, 
he was there, he was everywhere, and yet, when the search 
was up, he was nowhere. Tales were told of his eloquence 


148 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


that increased the impression that he made a thousand- 
fold; it was said that he could wile birds off their branches 
and the beasts from their lairs; and this eloquence^ it was 
known, could be heard only by initiates, in far-off country 
houses, or in quiet, unsuspected places in the cities. He 
preached in some shrouded and locked room in London one 
day ; and the next, thirty miles off, in a cow-shed to rustics. 
And his learning and his subtlety were equal to his elo- 
quence: her Grace had heard him at Oxford years ago, 
before his conversion; and, it was said, would refuse him 
nothing, even now, if he would but be reasonable in his 
religion; even Canterbury, it was reported, might be his. 
And if he would not be reasonable — then, as was fully in 
accordance with what was known of her Grace, nothing 
was too bad for him. 

Such feeling then, on the part of Protestants, found its 
fellow in that of the Catholics. He was their champion, 
as no other man could be. Had he not issued his famous 
“ challenge ” to any and all of the Protestant divines, to 
meet them in any argument on religion that they cared to 
select, in any place and at any time, if only his own safe- 
conduct were secure? And was it not notorious that none 
would meet him? He was, indeed, a fire, a smoke in the 
nostrils of his adversaries, a flame in the hearts of his 
friends. Everywhere he ranged, he and his comrade, 
Father Persons, sometimes in company, sometimes apart; 
and wherever they went the Faith blazed up anew from its 
dying embers, in the lives of rustic knave and squire. 

And she was to see him! 

He is here for four or five days only,” went on Anthony 
presently, still in a low, cautious voice. “ The hunt is very 
hot, they say. Not even the host knows who he is ; or, at 
least, makes that he does not. He is under another name. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


149 


of course; it is Mr. Edmonds, this time. He was in Essex, 
he tells me; but comes to the wolves’ den for safety. It 
is safer, he says, to sit secure in the midst of the trap, than 
to wander about its doors; for when the doors are opened 
he can run out again, if no one knows he is there. . . 

Ill 

When supper was finished at last, and the maids had 
borne away the dishes, there came almost immediately a 
tap upon the door; and before any could answer, there 
walked in a man, smiling. 

He was of middle-size, dressed in a dark, gentleman’s 
suit, carrying hisr feathered hat in his hand, with his sword. 
He appeared far younger than Marjorie had expected — 
scarcely more than thirty years old, of a dark and yet clear 
complexion, large-eyed, with a look of humour ; his hair was 
long and brushed back; and a soft, pointed beard and 
moustache covered the lower part of his face. He moved 
briskly and assuredly, as one wholly at his ease. 

“ I am come to the right room.^ ” he said. “ That is as 
well.” 

His voice, too, had a ring of gaiety in it; it was low, 
quite clear and very sympathetic; and his manners, as 
Marjorie obs'erved, were those of a cultivated gentleman, 
without even a trace of the priest. She would not have 
been astonished if she had been told that the man was of 
the court, or some great personage of the country. There 
was no trace of furtive hurry or of alarm about him; he 
moved deftly and confidently; and when he sat down, after 
the proper greetings, crossed one leg over the other, so 
that he could nurse his foot. It seemed more incredible 
even than she had thought, that this was Father Campion! 

“You have pleasant rooms here, and music to cheer you. 


150 - COME RACK! COME ROPE! 

too,” he said. “ I understand that you are often here, Mr. 
Babington.” 

Anthony explained that he found them convenient and 
very secure. 

“ Roberts is a prudent landlord,” he said. 

Father Campion nodded. 

“ He knows his own business, which is what few land- 
lords do, in thes'e degenerate days; and he knows nothing 
at all of his guests’. In that he is even more of an ex- 
ception.” 

His eyes twinkled delightfully at the ladies. 

“ And so,” he said, “ God blesses him in those who use 
his house.” 

They talked for a few minutes in thisr manner. Father 
Campion spoke of the high duty that lay on all country 
ladies to make themselves acquainted with the sights of 
the town; and spoke of three or four of these. Her Grace, 
of course, must be seen; that was the greatest sight of all. 
They must make an opportunity for that; and there would 
surely be no difficulty, since her Grace liked nothing better 
than to be looked at. And they mufft go up the river by 
water, if the weather allowed, from the Tower to West- 
minster; not from Westminster to the Tower, since that 
was the way that traitors came, and no good Catholie could, 
even in appearance, be a traitor. And, if they pleased, 
he would himself be their guide for a part of their adven- 
tures. He was to lie hid, he told them; and he knew no 
better way to do that than to flaunt as boldly as possible 
in the open ways. 

“If I lay in my room,” said he, “ with a bolt drawn, 
I would soon have some busy fellow knoeking on the door 
to know what I did there. But if I could but dine with 
her Grace, or take an hour with Mr. Topcliffe, I should 
be secure for ever.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


151 


Marjorie glanced shyly towards Alice, as if to ask a 
question. (She was listening, it seemed to her, with every 
nerve in her tired body.) The priest saw the glance. 

“ Mr. Topcliffe, madam Well; let us say he is a dear 
friend of the Lieutenant of the Tower, and has, I think, 
lodgings there just now. And he is even a friend of 
Catholics, too — to such, at least, as desire a heavenly 
crown.” 

“ He is an informer and a tormentor ! ” broke in An- 
thony harshly. 

“ Well, sir; let us say that he is very loyal to the letter 
of the law; and that he presides over our Protestant bed 
of Procrustes.” 

“ The ” began Marjorie, emboldened by the kind- 

ness of the priest’s voice. 

“ The bed of Procrustes, madam, was a bed to which all 
who lay upon it had to be conformed. Those that were too 
long were made short; and those that were too short were 
made long. It is a pleasant classical name for the rack.” 

Marjorie caught her breath. But Father Campion went 
on smoothly. 

“ We shall have a clear day to-morrow, I think,” he said. 
“ If you are at liberty, sir, and these ladies are not too 
wearied — I have a little business in Westminster; and ” 

“ Why, yes,” said Anthony, “ for to-morrow night we 
expect friends. From Rheims, sir.” 

The priest dropped his foot and leaned forward. 

“ From Rheims } ” he said sharply. 

The other nodded. 

“ Eight or ten at least will arrive. Not all are priests. 
One is a friend of our own from Derbyshire, who will not 
be made priest for five years yet.” 

“ I had not heard they were to come so sroon,” said 
Father Campion. “ And what a company of them I ” 


152 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ There are a few of them who have been here before. 
Mr. Ballard is one of them.” 

The priest was silent an instant. 

“Mr. Ballard/’ he said. “Ballard! Yes; he has been 
here before. He travels as Captain Fortescue^ does he not.^ 
You are a friend of his.^ ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

Father Campion made as if he would speak; but inter- 
rupted himself and was silent; and it seemed to Marjorie 
as if another mood was fallen on him. And presently they 
were talking again of London and its sights. 

IV 

In spite of her weariness, Marjorie could not sleep for 
an hour or two after she had gone to bed. It was an ex- 
traordinary experience to her to have fallen in, on the very 
night of her coming to London, with the one man whose 
name stood to her for all that was gallant in her faith. As 
she lay there, listening to the steady breathing of Alice, 
who knew no such tremors of romance, to the occasional 
stamp of a horse across the yard, and, once or twice, to 
voices and footsteps passing on some paved way between 
the houses, she rehearsed again and again to herself the 
tales she had heard of him. 

Now and again she thought of Robin. She wondered 
whether he, too, one day (and not of necessity a far- 
distant day, since promotion came quickly in this war of 
faith), would occupy some post like that which this man 
held so gaily and so courageously; and for the first time, 
perhaps, she understood not in vision merely, but in sober 
thought, what the life of a priest in those days signified. 
Certainly she had met man after man before — she had en- 
tertained them often enough in her mother’s place, and 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


153 


had provided by her own wits for their security — men who 
went in peril of liberty and even of life; but here^ within 
the walls of London^ in this “ wolves’ den ” as Father 
Campion had called it, where men brushed against one 
another continually, and looked into a thousand faces a 
day, where patrols went noisily with lights and weapons, 
where the great Tower stood, where her Grace, the mis- 
tress of the wolves, had her dwelling — here, peril assumed 
another aspect, and pain and death another reality, from 
that which they presented on the wind-swept hills and 
the secret valleys of the country from which they 
came. . . . And it was with Father Campion himself, in 
his very flesh, that she had talked this evening — it was 
Father Campion who had given her that swift, kindly look 
of commendation, as Mr. Babington had spoken of her 
reason for coming to London, and of her hospitality to wan- 
dering priests — Father Campion, the Angel of the Church, 
was in England. And to-morrow Robin, too, would be 
here. 

Then, as sleep began to come down on her tired and ex- 
cited brain, and to form, as so often under such conditions, 
little visible images, even before the reason itself is lulled, 
there began to pass before her, first tiny and delicate pic- 
tures of what she had seen to-day — the low hills to the 
north of London, dull and dark below the heavy sky, but 
light immediately above the horizon as the sun sank down; 
the appearance of her horse’s ears — those ears and that tuft 
of wayward mane between them of which she had grown 
so weary ; the lighted walls of the London streets ; the mon- 
strous shadows of the eaves; the flare of lights; the mov- 
ing figures — these came first; and then faces — Father 
Campion’s, smiling, with white teeth and narrowed eyes, 
bright against the dark chimney-breast; Alice’s serene 


154 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


features', framed in flaxen hair; and then, as sleep had all 
but conquered her, the imagination sent up one last idea, 
and a face came into being before her, so formless yet so 
full, so sinister, so fierce and so distorted, that she drew a 
sudden breath and sat up, trembling. . . . 

. . . Why had they spoken to her of Topcliffe? . . . 


CHAPTER III 


I 

It was a soft winter’s morning as the party came down 
the little slope towards the entrance-gate of the Tower next 
day. The rain last night had cleared the air^ and the sun 
shone as through thin veils of haze, kindly and sweet. The 
river on the right was at high tide, and up from the water’s 
edge came the cries of the boatmen, pleasant and invigor- 
ating. 

The sense of unreality was deeper than ever on Mar- 
jorie’s mind. One incredible thing after another, known 
to her only in the past by rumour and description, and 
imagined in a frame of glory, was taking shape before her 
eyes. . . . She was in London ; she had slept in Cheapside ; 
she had talked with Father Campion; he was with her now; 
this was the Tower of London that lay before her, a mon- 
strous huddle of grey towers and battlemented walls along 
which passed the scarlet of a livery and the gleam of 
arms. 

All the way that they had walked, her eyes had been 
about her everywhere — the eyes of a startled child, through 
which looked the soul of a woman. She had seen the 
folks go past like actors in a drama — London merchants, 
apprentices, a party of soldiers, a group on horseback: she 
had seen a congregation pour out of the doors of some 
church whose name she had asked and had forgotten again ; 
the cobbled patches of street had been a marvel to her; 
the endless roofs, the white and black walls, the leaning 
windows, the galleries where heads moved; the vast wharfs; 
the crowding masts, resembling a stripped forest ; the 

165 


156 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


rolling-gaited sailors; and, above all, the steady murmur of 
voices and footsteps, never ceasing, beyond which the crow- 
ing of cocks and the barking of dogs sounded far off and 
apart — these things combined to make a kind of miracle 
that all at once delighted, oppressed and bewildered her. 

Here and there some personage had been pointed out to 
her by the trim, merry gentleman who walked by her side 
with his sword swinging. (Anthony went with his sister 
just behind, as they threaded their way through the crowded 
streets, and the two men-servants followed.) She saw a 
couj^le of City dignitaries in their furs, with stavesmen to 
clear their road; a little troop of the Queen’s horse, blazing 
with colour, under the command of a young officer who 
might have come straight from Romance. But she was 
more absorbed — or, rather, she returned every instant to the 
man who walked beside her with such an air and talked so 
loudly and cheerfully. Certainly, it seemed to her, his 
disguise was perfect, and himself the best part of it. She 
compared him in her mind with a couple of ministers, 
splendid and awful in their gowns and ruffs, whom they had 
met turning into one of the churches just now, and smiled 
at the comparison; and yet perhaps these were preachers 
too, and eloquent in their own fashion. 

And now, here was the Tower — the end of all things, so 
far as London was concerned. Beyond it she saw the wide 
rolling hills, the bright reaches of the river, and the sparkle 
of Placentia, far away. 

“ Her Grace is at Westminster these days,” exclaimed the 
priest ; “ she is moving to Hampton Court in a day or two ; 
so I doubt not we shall be able to go in and see a little. 
We shall see, at least, the outside of the Paradise where 
so many holy ones have lived and died. There are three 
or four of them here now; but the most of them are in 
the Fleet or the Marshalsea.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


157 


Marjorie glanced at him. She did not understand. 

“ I mean Catholic prisoners, mistress. There are several 
of them in ward here, but we had better speak no names.” 

Pie wheeled suddenly as they came out into the open 
and moved to the left. 

“ There is Tower Hill, mistress; where my lord Cardinal 
Fisher died, and Thomas More.” 

Marjorie stopped short. But there was nothing great 
to see — only a rising ground, empty and bare, with a few 
trimmed trees ; the ground was without grass ; a few cobbled 
paths crossed this way and that. 

“ And here is the gateway,” he said, “ whence they come 
out to glory. . . . And there on the right ” (he swept his 
arm towards the river) “ you may see, if you are fortunate, 
other criminals called pirates, hung there till they be cov- 
ered by three tides.” 

Still standing there, with Mr. Babington and his sister 
come up from behind, he began to relate the names of this 
tower and of that, in the great tumbled mass of buildings 
surmounted by the high keep. But Marjorie paid no great 
attention except with an effort: she was brooding rather 
on the amazing significance of all that she saw. It was 
under this gateway that the martyrs came; it was from 
those windows in that tower which the priest had named 
just now, that they had looked. . . . And this was Father 
Campion. She turned and watched him as he talked. He 
was dressed as he had been dressed last night, but with a 
small cloak thrown over his shoulders ; he gesticulated 
freely and easily, pointing out this and that ; now and again 
his eyes met hers, and there was nothing but a grave merri- 
ment in them. . . . Only once or twice his voice softened, 
as he spoke of those great ones that had shown Catholics 
how both to die and live. 


158 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ And now/’ he said^ “ with your permission I will go 
and speak to the guard, and see if we may have entrance.” 

It was almost with terror that she saw him go — a soli- 
tary man, with a price on his head, straight up to those 
whose business it was to catch him — armed men, as she 
could see — she could even see the quilted jacks they wore 
— who, it may be, had talked of him in the guard-room only 
last night. But his air was so assured and so magnificent 
that 'even she began to understand how complete such a 
disguise might be; and she watched him speaking with the 
officer with a touch even of his own humour in her heart. 
Indeed, there was some truth in the charge of Jesuitry, 
after all! 

Then the figure turned and beckoned, and they went 
forward. 


II 

A certain horror, in spite of herself and her company, 
fell on her as she passed beneath the solid stone vaulting, 
passed along beneath the towering wall, turned up from 
the water-gate, and came out into the wide court round 
which the Lieutenant’s lodgings, the little church, and the 
enormous White Tower itself are grouped. There was a 
space, not enclosed in any way, but situated within a web 
of paths, not far from the church, that caught her atten- 
tion. She stood looking at it. 

“ Yes, mistress,” said the priest behind her. “ That is 
the place of execution for those who die within the Tower — 
those usually of royal blood. My Lady Salisbury died 
there, and my Lady Jane Grey, and others.” 

He laid his hand gently on her arm. 

“ You must not look so grave,” he said, you must gape 
more. You are a country-cousin, madam.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


159 

And she smiled in spite of hers'elf, as she met his eyes. 

“ Tell me everything/’ she said. 

They went together nearer to the church, and faced 
about. 

“We can see better from here/’ he said. 

Then he began. 

First there was the Lieutenant’s lodging on the right. 
They must look well at that. Interviews had taken place 
there that had made history. (He mentioned a few names.) 
Then, further down on the right, beyond that corner round 
which they had come just now, was the famous water-gate, 
called “ Traitors’ Gate,” through which passed those con- 
victed of treason at Westminster, or, at least, those who 
were under grave suspicion. Such as these came, of course, 
by water, as prisoners on whose behalf a demonstration 
might perhaps be made if they came by land. So, at least, 
he understood was the reason of the custom. 

“ Her Grace herself once came that way,” he said with a 
twinkle. “ Now she sends other folks in her stead.” 

Then he pointed out more clearly the White Tower. It 
was there that the Council sat on affairs of importance. 

“ And it is there ” began Anthony harshly. 

The priest turned to him, suddenly grave, as if in re- 
proof. 

“ Yes,” he said softly. “ It is there that the passion of 
the martyrs begins.” 

Marjorie turned sharply. 

“ You mean ” 

“ Well,” he said, “ it is there that the Council sits to ex- 
amine prisoners both before and after the Question. They 
are taken downstairs to the Question, and brought back 
again after it. It was there that ” 

He broke off. 

“ Who is this? ” he said. 


160 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


The court had been empty while they talked except that 
on the far side, beneath the towering cliff of the keep, a 
sentry went to and fro. But now another man had come 
into view, walking up from the way they themselves had 
come; and it would appear from the direction he took that 
he would pass within twenty or thirty yards of them. He 
was a tall man, dressed in sad-coloured clothes, with a felt 
hat on his head and the usual sword by his side. He was 
plainly something of a personage, for he walked easily and 
confidently. He was still some distance off; but it was' 
possible to make out that he was sallowish in complexion, 
wore a trimmed beard, and had something of a long throat. 

Father Campion stared at him a moment, and, as he 
stared, Marjorie heard Mr. Babington utter a sudden ex- 
clamation. Then the priest, with one quick glance at him, 
murmured something which Marjorie could not hear, and 
walked briskly off to meet the stranger. 

“ Come,” said Anthony in a sharp, low voice, “ we must 
see the church.” 

“ Who is it ? ” whispered Mistress Alice, with even her 
serene face a little troubled. 

For the first moment, as they walked towards the en- 
trance of the church, Anthony said nothing. Then as they 
reached it, he said, in a tone quite low and yet full of 
suppressed passion of some kind, a name that Marjorie 
could not catch. 

She turned before they went in, and looked again. 

The priest was talking to the stranger, and was making 
gestures, as if asking for direction. 

“Who is it, Mr. Babington.^ ” she asked again as they 
went in. “ I did not ” 

“ Topcliffe,” said Anthony. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


161 


III 

The horror was still on the girl, as they went, an hour 
later, up the ebbing tide towards Westminster, in a boat 
rowed by a waterman and one of their own servants. About 
them was a scene, of which the very thought, a month ago, 
would have absorbed and fascinated her. They had scarcely 
passed through London Bridge — finding themselves just in 
time before the fall of the water would have hindered 
their passage, leaving out of sight the grey sunlit heap of 
buildings from which they had come. All about them the 
river was gay with shipping. Wherries, like clumsy water- 
beetles, lurched along out of the current, or slipped out 
suddenly to make their way across from one stairs to an- 
other; a great barge, coming down-stream, grew larger 
every instant, its prow bright with gilding, and the throb 
of the twelve oars in the row-locks coming to them like the 
grunting of a beast. On either side of the broad stream 
rose the houses and the churches, those on this side visible 
down to their shining window-panes in the sunlight, and the 
very texture of their tiled roofs; those on the other a mere 
huddle of countless walls and gables, in the shadow; and 
between them showed the leafless trees, stretches of green 
meadow, across which moved tiny figures, and the brown 
flats of the marshes beyond, broken here and there by 
outlying villages a mile or two away. Behind them now 
towered the great buildings on London Bridge — the chapel, 
the houses, the old gateway on the south end, above which 
the impaled heads of traitors stood out against the bright 
sky. It was a tolerable crop just now, the priest had said, 
bitterly smiling. But, above all else, as the boat moved 
up, Marjorie kept her eyes fixed on far-off Westminster, on 
the grey towers and the white walls where Elizabeth 
reigned and Saint Edward slept; while within her mind. 


162 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


clear as a picture, she saw still the empty court, as she 
had seen it when the priest fetched them out again from 
the church — empty at last of the hateful presence which 
he had faced so confidently. 

“ It appeared to me best to speak with him openly,” said 
the priest quietly, as they had waited ten minutes later on 
the wharf outside the Tower, while the men ran to make 
ready their boat. “ I do not know why, but I suppose I 
am one of those who better like their danger in front than 
behind. I knew him at once; I have had him pointed out 
to me two or three times before. So I looked him in the 
eyes, and asked him whether some ladies from the country 
might be permitted to see the White Tower, and to whom 
we had best apply. He told me that was not his affair, and 
looked me up and down as he said it. And then he went 
his way to . . . the White Tower, where I doubt not he 
had business.” 

“ He said no more ? ” asked Anthony. 

“ No, he said no more. But I shall know him again 
better next time, and he me.” 

It seemed of evil omen to the girl that she should have 
had such an encounter on the day that Robin came back. 
Like all persons who dwell much in the country, a world 
that was neither that of the flesh nor yet of the spirit 
was that in which she largely moved — a world of strange 
laws, and auspices, and this answering to this and that to 
that. It is a state inconceivable to those who live in the 
noise and movement of town — who find town-life, that is, 
the life in which they are most at ease. For where men 
have made the earth that is trodden underfoot, and have 
largely veiled the heavens themselves, it is but natural that 
they should think that they have made everything, and that 
it is they who rule it. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


163 


As they drew nearer Westminsrter then, it was with 
Marjorie as it had been when they came to the Tower. 
The priest was busy pointing out this or that building — 
the Palace towers, the Hall, the Abbey behind, and St. 
Margaret’s Church, as well as the smaller buildings of the 
Court, and the little town that lay round about. But she 
listened as she listened to the noise that came from the 
streets clear across the water, attending to it, yet scarcely 
distinguishing one thing from another, and forgetting each 
as soon as she heard it. She was thinking all the while 
of Robin, and of the man whose face she had seen, of his 
beard and his long throat. Well, at least, Robin was not 
yet a priest. . . . 

The boat was already nearing the King’s Stairs at 
Westminster, when a new event happened that for a while 
distracted her. 

The first they saw of it was the sight of a number of 
men and women running in a disorderly mob, calling out 
as they ran, along the river-bank in the direction from 
Charing Old Cross towards Palace Yard. They appeared 
excited, but not by fear; and it was plain that something 
was taking place of which they wished to have a sight. 
As the priest stood up in the boat in order to have a 
clearer sight of what lay above the bank, three or four 
trumpet-calls of a peculiar melody, rang out clear and 
distinct, echoed back by the walls round about, plainly 
audible above the rising noise of a crowd that, it seemed, 
must be gathering out of sight. The priest sat down again 
and his face was merry. 

“ You have come on a fortunate day, mistress,” he said 
to Marjorie. “ First Topcliffe, and now her Grace; if we 
make haste we may see her pass by.” 

“ Her Grace? ” 


164 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ She will be going to dinner in Whitehall^ after having 
taken the air by the river. They will be passing the Abbey 
now. But she will not be in her supreme state; I am 
sorry for that.” 

As they rowed in quickly over the last hundred yards that 
lay between them and the stairs, Marjorie listened to the 
priest as he described something of what the “ supreme 
state ” signified. He spoke of the long lines of carriages, 
filled with the ladies and the infirm, preceded by the 
pikemen, and the gentlemen pensioners carrying wands, 
and the knights followed by the heralds. Behind these, he 
said, came the officers of State immediately before 
the Queen’s carriage, and after her the guards of her 
person. 

“ But this will be but a tame affair,” he said. “ I wish 
you could have seen a Progress, with the arches and the 
speeches and the declamations, and the heathen gods and 
goddesses that reign round our Eliza, when she will go to 
Ashridge or Havering. I have heard it said ” 

And then the prow of the boat, turned deftly at the last 
instant, grated along the lowest stair, and the waterman 
was out to steady his craft. 


IV 

It was the very crown and summit of new sensation that 
Marjorie attained as she stood in an open gallery that 
looked on to the road from Westminster to Whitehall. 
Father Campion, speaking of a good friend ” of his that 
had his lodgings there, led them by a short turning or two, 
that avoided the crowd, straight to the door of what ap- 
peared to Marjorie a mere warren of rooms, stairs and 
passages. A grave little man, with a pen behind his ear. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


165 


ran out upon tlieir knocking at one of these doors^ and 
led them straight through, smiling and talking, out into this 
very gallery where they now stood; and then vanished 
again. 

The gallery was such as those which Marjorie had noted 
on the way to the Tower; a high-hung, airy place, running 
the length of the house, contrived on the level of the second 
floor, with the first floor roof beneath and overhanging at- 
tics above. It was s'upported on massive oak beams, and 
protected from the street by a low balustrade of a height to 
lean the elbows upon it. It was on this balustrade that 
Marjorie leaned, looking down into the street. 

To the left the narrow roadway curved off out of sight 
in the direction of Palace Yard; on the right she could 
make out, a hundred yards away, some kind of a gateway, 
that strode across the street, and gave access, she sup- 
posed, to the Palace. Opposite, the windows were filled 
with faces, and an enthusiastic loyalist was leaning, red- 
faced and vociferous, calling to a friend in the crowd be- 
neath, from a gallery corresponding to that from which 
the girl was looking. 

Of the procession nothing was at present to be seen. 
They had caught a glimpse of colour somewhere to the 
east of the Abbey as they turned off opposite Westminster 
Hall ; and already the cry of the trumpets and the increasing 
noise of a crowd out of sight, told the listeners that they 
would not have long to wait. 

Beneath, the crowd was arranging itself with admirable 
discipline, dispersing in long lines two or three deep 
against the walls, so as to leave a good space, and laugh- 
ing good-humouredly at a couple of officious persons in 
livery who had suddenly made their appearance. And 
then, as the country girl herself smiled down, an exclama- 
tion from Alice made her turn. 


166 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


At first it was difficult to discern anything clearly in the 
srtream whose head began to discharge itself round the 
curve from the left. A row of brightly-coloured uniforms, 
moving four abreast, came first, visible above the tossing 
heads of horses. Then followed a group of guards, whose 
steel caps passed suddenly into the sunlight that caught 
them from between the houses, and went again into 
shadow. 

And then at last, she caught a glimpse of the carriage, 
followed by ladies on grey horses ; and forgot all the 
rest. 

This way and that she eraned her head, gripping the 
oak post by which she leaned, unconscious of all except 
that she was to see her in whom England itself seemed to 
have been incarnated — the woman who, as perhaps no 
other earthly sovereign in the world at that time, or before 
her, had her people in a grasp that was not one of merely 
regal power. Even far away in Derbyshire — even in the 
little eountry manor from which the girl came, the aroma 
of that tremendous presence penetrated — of the woman 
whom men loved to hail as the Virgin Queen, even though 
they might question her virginity; the woman — “our 
Eliza,” as the priest had named her just now — who had 
made so shrewd an act of faith in her people that they had 
responded with an unreserved act of love. It was this 
woman, then, whom she was about to see; the sister of 
Mary and Edward, the daughter of Henry and Anne 
Boleyn, who had received her kingdom Catholic, and by 
her own mere might had chosen to make it Protestant; the 
woman whose anointed hands were already red in the blood 
of God’s servants, yet hands which men fainted as they 
kissed. ... 

Then on a sudden, as Elizabeth lifted her head this side 
and that, the girl saw her. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


167 


She was sitting in a low carriage, raised on cushions, 
alone. Four tall horses drew her at a slow trot: the wheels 
of the carriage were deep in mud, since she had driven for 
an hour over the deep December roads; but this added 
rather to the splendour within. But of this Marjorie re- 
membered no more than an uncertain glimpse. The air 
was thick with cries; from window after window waved 
hands; and, more than all, the loyalty was real, and filled 
the air like brave music. 

There, then, she sat, smiling. 

She was dressed in some splendid stuff; jewels sparkled 
beneath her throat. Once a hand in an embroidered glove 
rose to wave an answer to the roar of salute; and, as the 
carriage came beneath, she raised her face. 

It was a thin face, sharply pear-shaped, ending in a 
pointed chin; a tight mouth smiled at the -corners; above 
her narrow eyes and high brows rose a high forehead, 
surmounted by strands of auburn hair drawn back tightly 
beneath the little head-dress. It was a strangely peaked 
face, very clear-skinned, and resembled in some manner a 
mask. But the look of it was as sharp as steel; like a 
slender rapier, fragile and thin, yet keen enough to run a 
man through. The power of it, in a word, was out of all 
measure with the slightness of the face. . . . Then the 
face dropped; and Marjorie watched. the back of the head 
bending this way and that, till the nodding heads that fol- 
lowed hid it from sight. 

Marjorie drew a deep breath and turned. The faces of 
her friends were as pale and intent as her own. Only the 
priest was as easy as ever. 

“ So that is our Eliza,” he said. 

Then he did a strange thing. 

He lifted his cap once more with grave seriousness. 
“ God save her Grace ! ” he said. 


CHAPTER IV 


I 

Robin bowed to her very carefully, and stood upright again. 

She had seen in an instant how changed he was, in that 
swift instant in which her eyes had singled him out from 
the little crowd of men that had come into the room with 
Anthony at their head. It was a change which she could 
scarcely have put into words, unless s'he had said that it 
was the conception of the Levite within his soul. He was 
dressed soberly and richly, with a sword at his side, in 
great riding-boots splas'hed to the knees with mud, with 
his cloak thrown back; and he carried his great brimmed 
hat in his hand. All this was as it might have been in 
Derby, though, perhaps, his dress was a shade more digni- 
fied than that in which she had ever seen him. But the 
change was in his face and bearing; he bore himself like a 
man, and a restrained man; and there was besides that 
subtle air which her woman’s eyes could see, but which 
even her woman’s wit could not properly describe. 

She made room for him to sit beside her; and then 
Father Campion’s voice spoke: 

“ These are the gentlemen, then,” he said. “ And two 

more are not yet come. Gentlemen ” he bowed. “ And 

which is Captain Fortescue?” 

A big man, distinguished from the rest by a slightly 
military air, and by a certain vividness of costume and a 
bristling feather in his hat, bowed back to him. 

“ We have met once before, Mr. — Mr. Edmonds,” he 
said. “ At Valladolid.” 


168 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


169 


Father Campion smiled. 

“ Yes, sir; for five or ten minutes; and I was in the same 
room with your honour onee at the Duke of Guisre’s. . . . 
And now, sir, who are the rest of your company.^ ” 

The others were named one by one; and Marjorie eyed 
each of them carefully. It was her business to know them 
again if ever they should meet in the north; and for a few 
minutes the company moved here and there, bowing and 
saluting, and taking their seats. There were still a couple 
of men who were not yet come; but these two arrived 
a few minutes later; and it was not until she had said a 
word or two to them all, and Father Campion had named 
her and her good works, to them, that she found herself 
back again with Robin in a seat a little apart. 

“ You look very well,” she said, with an admirable com- 
posure. 

His eyes twinkled. 

“ I am as weary as a man can be,” he said. “ We have 
ridden since before dawn. . . . And you, and your good 
works } ” 

Marjorie explained, describing to him something of the 
system by which priests were safeguarded now in the north 
— the districts into which the county was divided, and the 
apportioning of the responsibilities among the faithful 
houses. It was her business, she said, to receive messages 
and to pas’s them on; she had entertained perhaps a dozen 
priests since the summer; perhaps she would entertain him, 
too, one day, she said. 

The ordeal was far lighter than she had feared it would 
be. There was a strong undercurrent of excitement in her 
heart, flushing her cheeks and sparkling in her eyes; yet 
never for one moment was she even tempted to forget that 
he was now vowed to God. It seemed to her as if she 


170 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


talked with him in the spirit of that place where there is 
neither marrying nor giving in marriage. Those two years 
of quiet in the north, occupied, even more than she recog- 
nised, in the rearranging of her relations with the memory 
of this young man, had done their work. She still kindled 
at his presence; but it was at the presence of one who had 
undertaken an adventure that destroyed altogether her old 
relations with him. . . . She was enkindled even more by 
the sense of her own security; and, as she looked at him, 
by the sense of his security too. Robin was gone; here, 
instead, was young Mr. Audrey, seminary student, who 
even in a court of law could swear before God that he was 
not a priest, nor had been “ ordained beyond the seas.” 

So they sat and exchanged news. She told him of the 
rumours of his father that had come to her from time to 
time; he would be a magistrate yet, it was said, so hot 
was his loyalty. Even her Grace, it was reported, had 
vowed she wished she had a thousand such country gentle- 
men on whose faithfuness she could depend. And Robin 
gave her news of the seminary, of the hours of rising and 
sleeping, of the sports there; of the confessors for the 
faith who came and went; of Dr. Allen. He told her, too, 
of Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam; he often had talked with 
them of Derbyshire, he said. It was very peaceful and 
very stirring, too, to sit here in the lighted parlour, and 
hear and give the news ; while the company, gathered round 
Anthony and Father Campion, talked in low voices, and 
Mistress Babington, placid, watched them and listened. He 
showed her, too, Mr. Maine’s beads which she had given 
him so long ago, hung in a little packet round his neck. 

More than once, as they talked, Marjorie found herself 
looking at Mr. Ballard, or, as he was called here. Captain 
Fortescue. It was he who seemed the leader of the troop; 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


171 


and^ indeed, as Robin told her in a whisper, that was what 
he was. He came and went frequently, he said; his man- 
ner and his carriage were reassuring to the suspicious; he 
appeared, perhaps, the last man in the world to be a priest. 
He was a big man, as has been said; and he had a frank 
assured way with him; he was leaning forward, even now, 
as she looked at him, and seemed laying down the law, 
though in what was almost a whisper. Father Campion was 
watching him, too, she noticed; and, what she had learned 
of Father Campion in the last few hours led her to wonder 
whether there was not something of doubtfulness in his 
opinion of him. 

Father Campion suddenly shook his head sharply. 

“ I am not of that view at all,” he said. “ I ” 

And once more his voice sank so low as to be inaudible; 
as the rest leaned closer about him. 

II 

Mr. Anthony Babington seemed silent and even a little 
displeased when, half an hour later, the visitors were all 
gone downstairs to supper. Three or four of them were 
to sleep in the house; the rest, of whom Robin was one, 
had Captain Fortescue’s instructions as to where lodgings 
were prepared. But the whole company was tired out with 
the long ride from the coast, and would be seen no more 
that night. 

Marjorie knew enough of the divisions of opinion among 
Catholics, and of Mr. Babington in particular, to have a 
general view as to why her companion was displeased; but 
more than that she did not know, nor what point in par- 
ticular it was on which the argument had run. The one 
party — of Mr. Babington’s kind — held that Catholics were, 
morally, in a state of war. War had been declared upon 


172 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


them^ without justification^ by the secular authorities, and 
physical instruments, including pursuivants and the rack, 
were employed against them. Then why should not they, 
too, employ the same kind of instruments, if they could, in 
return? The second party held that a religious pers'ecu- 
tion could not be held to constitute a state of war; the 
Apostles Peter and Paul, for example, not only did not 
employ the arm of flesh against the Roman Empire, but 
actually repudiated it. And this party further held that 
even the Pope’s bull, relieving Elizabeth’s subjects from 
their allegiance, did so only in an interior sense — in such 
a manner that while they must still regard her personal 
and individual rights — such rights as any human being 
possessed — they were not bound to render interior loyalty 
to her as their Queen, and need not, for example (though 
they were not forbidden to do so), regard it as a duty to 
fight for her, in the event, let us say, of an armed invasion 
from Spain. 

There, then, was the situation; and Mr. Anthony had, 
plainly, crossed swords this evening on the point. 

“ The Jesuit is too simple,” he said suddenly, as he 
strode about. “ I think ” He broke off. 

His sister smiled upon him placidly. 

** You are too hot, Anthony,” she said. 

The man turned sharply towards her. 

“ All the praying in the world,” he said, “ has not saved 
us so far. It seems to me time ” 

“ Perhaps our Lord would not have us saved,” she said ; 
” as you mean it.” 


Ill 


It was not until Christmas Eve that Marjorie went to 
St. Paul’s, for all that it was so close. But the days were 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


173 


taken up with the visitors; a hundred matters had to be 
arranged; for it was decided that before the New Year 
all were to be dispersed. Captain Fortescue and Robin 
were to leave again for the Continent on the day following 
Christmas Day itself. 

Marjorie made acquaintance during these days with more 
than one meeting-place of the Catholics in London. One 
was a quiet little house near St. Bartholomew’s-the-GreaL 
where a widow had three or four sets of lodgings, occupied 
frequently by priests and by other Catholics, who were 
best out of sight; and it was here that mass was to be said 
on Christmas Day. Another was in the Spanish Embassy; 
and here, to her joy, she looked openly upon a chapel of 
her faith, and from the gallery adored her Lord in the 
tabernacle. But even this was accomplished with an air 
of uneasiness in those round her; the Spanish priest who 
took them in walked quickly and interrupted them before 
they were done, and seemed glad to see the last of them. 
It was explained to Marjorie that the ambassador did not 
wish to give causeless offence to the Protestant court. 

And now, on Christmas Eve, Robin, Anthony and the 
two ladies entered the Cathedral as dusk was falling — first 
passing through the burial-ground, over the wall of which 
leaned the rows of houses in whose windows lights were 
beginning to burn. 

The very dimness of the air made the enormous heights 
of the great church more impressive. Before them 
stretched the long nave, over seven hundred feet from end 
to end; from floor to roof the eye travelled up the bunches 
of slender pillars to the dark ceiling, newly restored after 
the fire, a hundred and fifty feet. The tall windows on 
either side, and the clerestory lights above, glimmered 
faintly in the darkening light. 

But to the Catholic eyes that looked on it the desolation 


174 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


was more apparent than the srplendour. There were plenty 
of people here, indeed : groups moved up and down, talking, 
directing themselves more and more towards the exits, as 
the night was coming on and the church would be closed 
pres'ently; in one aisle a man was talking aloud, as if lec- 
turing, with a crowd of heads about him. In another a 
number of soberly dressed men were putting up their papers 
and ink on the little tables that stood in a row — this was 
Scriveners’ Corner, she was told; from a third half a dozen 
persons were dejectedly moving away — these were servants 
that had waited to be hired. But the soul of the place 
was gone. When they came out into the transepts, Anthony 
stopped them with a gesture, while a couple of porters, 
carrying boxes on their heads, pushed by, on their short 
cut through the cathedral. 

“ It was there,” he said, “ that the altars stood.” 

He pointed between the pillars on either side, and there, 
up little raised steps, lay the floors of the chapels. But 
within all was empty, except for a tomb or two, some 
tattered colours and the piscince still in place. Where the 
altars had stood there were blank spaces of wall; piled up 
in one such place were rows of wooden seats set there for 
want of room. 

Opposite the entrance to the choir, where once overhead 
had hung the great Rood, the four stood and looked in, 
through a gap which the masons were mending in the high 
wall that had bricked off the chancel from the nave. On 
either side, as of old, still rose up the towering carven 
stalls; the splendid pavement still shone beneath, refracting 
back from its surface the glimmer of light from the stained 
windows above ; but the head of the body was gone. Some- 
where, beneath the deep shadowed altar screen, they could 
make out an erection that might have been an altar, only 
they knew that it was not. It was no longer the Stone of 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


175 


Sacrifice, whence the smoke of the mystical Calvary as- 
cended day by day: it was the table, and no more, where 
bread and wine were eaten and drunk in memory of an event 
whose deathless energy had ceased, in this place, at least, 
to operate. Yet it was here, thought Marjorie, that only 
forty years ago, scarcely more than twenty years before she 
was born, on this very Night, the great church had hummed 
and vibrated with life. Round all the walls had sat priests, 
each in his place; and beside each kneeled a penitent, 
making ready for the joy of Bethlehem once again — wise 
and simple — Shepherds and Magi — yet all simple before 
the baffling and entrancing Mystery. There had been foot- 
steps and voices there too — yet of men who were busy upon 
their Father’s affairs in their Father’s house, and not upon 
their own. They were going from altar to altar, speaking 
with their Friends at Court; and here, opposite where she 
stood and peeped in the empty cold darkness, there had 
burned lights before the Throne of Him Who had made 
Heaven and earth, and did His Father’s Will on earth as 
it was done in Heaven. .^. . Forty years ago the life of 
this church was rising on this very night, with a hum as 
of an approaching multitude, from hour to hour, brighten- 
ing and quickening as it came, up to the glory of the Mid- 
night Mass, the crowded church, alight from end to end, 
the smell of box and bay in the air, soon to be met and 
crowned by the savour of incense-smoke; and the world 
of spirit, too, quickened about them; and the angels (she 
thought) came down from Heaven, as men up from the 
City round about, to greet Him who is King of both angels 
and men. 

And now, in this new England, the church, empty of the 
Divine Presence, was emptying, too, of its human visitors. 
She could hear great doors somewhere crash together, and 
the reverberation roll beneatli the stone vaulting. It would 


176 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


empty soon^ desolate and dark; and so it would be all 
night. . . . Why did not the very stones cry out? 

Mistress Alice touched her on the arm. 

“ We must be going,” she said. “ They are closing the 
church.” 

IV 

She had a long talk with Robin on Christmas night. 

The day had passed, making strange impressions on her, 
which she could not understand. Partly it was the contrast 
between the homely associations of the Feast, begun, as it 
was for her, with the mass before dawn — the room at the 
top of the widow’s house was crowded all the while she was 
there — between these associations and the unfamiliarity of 
the place. She had felt curiously apart from all that she 
saw that day in the streets — the patrolling groups, the 
singers, the monstrous-headed mummers (of whom compa- 
nies went about all day), two or three glimpses of important 
City festivities, the garlands that decorated many of the 
houses. It seemed to her as a shadow-show without sense 
or meaning, since the heart of Christmas was gone. Partly, 
too, no doubt, it was the memory of a former Christmas, 
three years ago, when she had begun to understand that 
Robin loved her. And he was with her again; yet all that 
he had stood for, to her, was gone, and another significance 
had taken its place. He was nearer to her heart, in one 
manner, though utterly removed, in another. It was as 
when a friend was dead: his familiar presence is gone; 
but now that one physical barrier is vanished, his presence 
is there, closer than ever, though in another fashion. . . . 

Robin had come in to sup. Captain Fortescue would 
fetch him about nine o’clock, and the two were to ride for 
the coast before dawn. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


177 


The four sat quiet after supper^ speaking in subdued 
voices, of hopes for the future, when England should be 
besieged, indeed, by the spiritual forces that were gather- 
ing overseas; but they slipped gradually into talk of the 
pasrt and of Derbyshire, and of rides they remembered. 
Then, after a while, Anthony was called away; Mistress 
Alice moved back to the table to see her needlework the 
better, and Robin and Marjorie sat together by the fire. 

He told her again of the journey from Rheims, of the 
inns where they lodged, of the extraordinary care that was 
taken, even in that Catholic land, that no rumour of the 
nature of the party should slip out, lest some gossip pre- 
cede them or even follow them to the coast of England. 
They carried themselves even there, he said, as ordinary 
gentlemen travelling together; two of them were supposed 
to be lawyers; he himself passed as Mr. Ballard’s servant. 
They heard mass when they could in the larger towns, 
but even then not all together. 

The landing in England had been easier, he said, than he 
had thought, though he had learned afterwards that a 
helpful young man, who had offered to show him to an inn 
in Folkestone, and in whose presence Mr. Ballard had taken 
care to give him a good rating for dropping a bag — with 
loud oaths — was a well-known informer. However, no 
harm was done: Mr. Ballard’s admirable bearing, and his 
oaths in particular, had seemed to satisfy the young man, 
and he had troubled them no more. 

Marjorie did not say much. She listened with a fierce 
attention, so much interested that she was scarcely aware 
of her own interest; she looked up, half betrayed into an- 
noyance, when a placid laugh from Mistress Alice at the 
table showed that another was listening too. 

She too, then, had to give her news, and to receive mes- 


178 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


sages for the Derbyshire folk whom Robin wished to greet; 
and it was not until Mistress Alice slipped out of the room 
that she uttered a word of what she had been hoping all 
day she might have an opportunity to say. 

“ Mr. Audrey/’ she said (for she was careful to use this 
form of address), “ I wish you to pray for me. I do not 
know what to do.” 

He was silent. 

“ At present/’ she said, gathering courage, “ my duty is 
clear. I must be at home, for my mother’s sake, if for 
nothing else. And, as I told you, I think I shall be able to 
do something for priests. But if my mother died ” 

“ Yes.^ ” he said, as she stopped again. 

She glanced up at his serious, deep-eyed face, half in 
shadow and half in light, so familiar, and yet so utterly 
apart from the boy she had known. 

“ Well,” she said, “ I think of you as a priest already, 
and I can speak to you freely. . . . Well, I am not sure 
whether I, too, shall not go overseas, to serve God 
better.” 

“ You mean ” 

“ Yes. A dozen or more are gone from Derbyshire, 
whose names I know. Some are gone to Bruges; two or 
three to Rome; two or three more to Spain. We women 
cannot do what priests can, but, at least, we can serve God 
in Religion.” 

She looked at him again, expecting an answer. She saw 
him move his head, as if to answer. Then he smiled sud- 
denly. 

“ Well, however you look at me, I am not a priest. . . . 
You had besrt speak to one — Father Campion or another.” 

“ But ” 

“ And I will pray for you,” he said with an air of finality. 

Then Mistress Alice came back. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


179 


She never forgot, all her life long, the little scene that 
took place when Captain Fortescue came in with Mr. Bab- 
ington, to fetch Robin away. Yet the whole of its vivid- 
ness rose from its interior significance. Externally here 
was a quiet parlour; two ladies — for the girl afterwards 
seemed to see hersrelf in the picture — stood by the fireplace ; 
Mistress Alice still held her needlework gathered up in 
one hand, and her spools of thread and a pin-cushion lay 
on the polished table. And the two gentlemen — for Cap- 
tain Fortescue would not sit down, and Robin had risen at 
his entrance — the two gentlemen stood by it. They were 
not in their boots, for they were not to ride till morning; 
they appeared two ordinary gentlemen, each hat-in-hand, 
and Robin had his cloak across his arm. Anthony Babing- 
ton stood in the shadow by the door, and, beyond him, the 
girl could see the face of Dick, who had come up to say 
good-bye again to his old master. 

That was all — four men and two ladies. None raised his 
voice, none made a gesture. The home party spoke of the 
journey, and of their hopes that all would go well; the 
travellers, or rather the leader (for Robin spoke not one 
word, good or bad), said that he was sure it would be so; 
there was not one-teni^ of the difficulty in getting out of 
England as of getting into it. Then, again, he said that it 
was late; that he had still one or two matters to arrange; 
that they must be out of London as soon as the gates 
opened. And the scene ended. 

Robin bowed to the two ladies, precisely and courteously, 
making no difference between them, and wheeled and went 
out, and she saw Dick’s face, too, vanish from the door, 
and heard the voices of the two on the stairs. Marjorie 
returned the salute of Mr. Ballard, longing to entreat him 
to take good care of the boy, yet knowing that she must not 
and could not. 


180 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Then he, too, was gone, with Anthony to sree him down- 
stairs ; and Mar j orie, without a word, went straight through 
to her room, fearing to trust her own voice, for she felt 
that her heart was gone with them. Yet, not for one 
moment did even her sensitive soul distrust any more the 
nature of the love that she bore to the lad. 

But Mistress Alice sat down again to her s'ewing. 


CHAPTER V 


I 

Marjorie was sitting in her mother’s room, while her 
mother slept. She had been reading aloud from a bundle 
of letters — news from Rheims; but little by little she had 
seen sleep come down on her mother’s face, and had let 
her voice trail away into silence. And so s’he sat quiet. 

It seemed incredible that nearly a year had passed since 
her visit to London, and that Christmas was ' upon them 
again. Yet in this remote country place there was little 
to make time run slowly: the country-side wheeled gently 
through the courses of the year ; the trees put on their green 
robes, changed them for russet and dropped them again; 
the dogs and the horses grew a little older, a beast died 
now and again, and others were born. The faces that she 
knew, servants and farmers, aged imperceptibly. Here 
and there a family moved away, and another into its place; 
an old man died and his son succeeded him, but the mother 
and sisters lived on in the house in patriarchal fashion. 
Priests came and went again unobserved; Marjorie went to 
the sacraments when she could, and said her prayers always. 
But letters came more frequently than ever to the little re- 
mote manor, carried now by some farm-servant, now left 
by strangers, now presented as credentials; and Booth’s 
Edge became known in that underworld of the north, 
which finds no record in history, as a safe place for folks 
in trouble for their faith. For one whole month in the 
summer there had been a visitor al the house — a cousin of 
old Mr. Manners, it was understood; and, except for the 

181 


182 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Catholics in the place, not a soul knew him for a priest, 
against whom the hue and cry still raged in York. 

Derbyshire, indeed, had done well for the old Religion. 
Man after man went in these years southwards and was 
heard of no more, till there came back one day a gentle- 
man riding alone, or with his servant ; and it became 
known that one more Derbyshire man was come again to 
his own place to minister to God’s people. Mr. Ralph 
Sherwine was one of them; Mr. Christopher Buxton an- 
other; and Mr. Ludlam and Mr. Garlick, it was rumoured, 
would not be long now. . . . And there had been a won- 
derful cessation of trouble, too. Not a priest had suffered 
since the two, the news of whose death she had heard two 
years ago. 

Marjorie, then, sitting quiet over the fire that burned 
now all the winter in her mother’s room, was thinking over 
these things. 

She had had more news from London from time to time, 
sent on to her chiefly by Mr. Babington, though none had 
come to her since the summer, and she had singled out in 
particular all that bore upon Father Campion. There was 
no doubt that the hunt was hotter every month; yet he 
seemed to bear a charmed life. Once he had escaped, she 
had heard, through the quick wit of a servant-maid, who 
had pushed him suddenly into a horse-pond, as the officers 
actually came in sight, so that he came out all mud and 
water- weed; and had been jeered at for a clumsy lover by 
the very men who were on his trail. . . . Marjorie smiled 
to herself as she nursed her knee over the fire, and remem- 
bered his gaiety and sharpness. 

Robin, too, was never very far from her thoughts. In 
some manner she put the two together in her mind. She 
wondered whether they would ever travel together. It was 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


183 


her hope that her old friend might become another Campion 
himself some day. 

A log rolled from its place in the fire, scattering sparks. 
She stooped to put it back, glancing first at the bed to see 
if her mother were disturbed; and, as she sat back again, 
she heard the blowing of a hors'e and a man’s voice, fierce 
and low, from beyond the windows, bidding the beast hold 
himself up. 

She was accustomed now to such arrivals. They came 
and went like this, often without warning; it was her busi- 
ness to look at any credentials they bore with them, and 
then, if all were well, to do what she could — whether to set 
them on their way, or to give them shelter. A room was' 
set aside now, in the further wing, and called openly 
and freely the “ priest’s room,” — so great was their 
security. 

She got up from her seat and went out quickly on tip- 
toe as she heard a door open and close beneath her in the 
house, running over in her mind any preparations that she 
would have to make if the rider were one that needed 
shelter. 

As she looked down the staircase, she saw a maid there, 
who had run out from the buttery, talking to a man whom 
she thought she knew. Then he lifted his face, and she saw 
that she was right: and that it was Mr. Babington. 

She came down, reassured and smiling; but her breath 
caught in her throat as she saw his face. . . . She told the 
maid to be off and get supper ready, but he jerked hisr 
head in refusal. She saw that he could hardly speak. 
Then she led him into the hall, taking down the lantern 
that hung in the passage, and placing it on the table. But 
her hand shook in spite of herself. 

“ Tell me,” she whispered. 

He sat down heavily on a bench. 


184 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ It is all over^” he said. “ The bloody murderers ! . . . 
They were gibbeted three days ago.’* 

The girl drew a long, steady breath. All her heart cried 
“ Robin.” 

” Who are they, Mr. Babington? ” 

” Why, Campion and Sherwine and Brian. They were 
taken a month or two ago. ... I had heard not a word of 
it, and . . . and it ended three days ago.” 

” I ... I do not understand.” 

The man struck his hand heavily on the long table 
against which he leaned. He appeared one flame of fury; 
courtesy and gentleness were all gone from him. 

“ They were hanged for treason, I tell you. . . . Treason! 
. . . Campion! . . . By God! we will give them treason 
if they will have it so ! ” 

All seemed gone from Marjorie except the white, 
splashed face that stared at her, lighted up by the lantern 
beside him, glaring from the background of darkness. It 
was not Robin . . . not Robin . . . yet 

The shocking agony of her face broke through the man’s 
heart-broken fury, and he stood up quickly. 

“ Mistress Marjorie,” he said, “ forgive me. ... I am 
like a madman. I am on my way from Derby, where the 
news came to me this afternoon. I turned aside to tell 
you. They say the truce, as they call it, is at an end. I 
came to warn you. You must be careful. I am riding for 
London. My men are in the valley. Mistress Mar- 
jorie ” 

She waved him aside. The blood was beginning again 
to beat swiftly and deafeningly in her ears, and the word 
came back. 

“ I ... I was shocked,” she said; . . you must par- 
don me. ... Is it certain ? ” 

He tore out a bundle of papers from behind his cloak. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 185 

detached one with shaking hands and thrust it before 
her. 

She sat down and spread it on the table. But his voice 
broke in and interrupted her all the while. 

“ They were all three taken together, in the summer. . . . 
I . . . have been in France; my letters never reached 
me. . . . They were racked continually. . . . They died 
all together; praying for the Queen ... at Tyburn. . . . 
Campion died the first. . . 

She pushed the paper from her; the close handwriting 
was no more to her than black marks on the paper. She 
passed her hands over her forehead and eyes. 

“ Mistress Marjorie, you look like death. See, I will 
leave the paper with you. It is from one of my friends 
who was there. . . 

The door was pushed open, and the servant came in, 
bearing a tray. 

“ Set it down,” said Marjorie, as coolly as if death and 
horror were as far from her as an hour ago. 

She nodded sharply to the maid, who went out again; 
then she rose and spread the food within the man’s reach. 
He began to eat and drink, talking all the time. 

As she sat and watched him and listened, remembering 
afterwards, as if mechanically, all that he said, she was con- 
templating something else. She seemed to see Campion, 
not as he had been three days ago, not as he was now . . . 
but as she had seen him in London — alert, brisk, quick. 
Even the tones of his voice were with her, and the swift 
merry look in his eyes. . . . Somewhere on the outskirts of 
her thought there hung other presences: the darkness, the 
blood, the smoking cauldron. . . . Oh! she would have to 
face these presently; she would go through this night, she 
knew, looking at all their terror. But just now let her 


186 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


remember him as he had been; let her keep off all other 
thoughts so long as she could. . . . 

II 

When she had heard the horse's footsteps scramble down 
the little steep ascent in the dark, and then pass into 
silence on the turf beyond, she closed the outer door, barred 
it once more, and then went back straight into the hall, 
where the lantern still burned among the plates. She dared 
not face her mother yet; she must learn how far she still 
held control of herself; for her mother must not hear the 
news: the apothecary from Derby who had ridden up to 
see her this week had been very emphatic. So the girl 
must be as usual. There must be no sign of discomposure. 
To-night, at least, she would keep her face in the shadow. 
But her voice? Could she control that too? 

After she had sat motionless in the cold hall a minute or 
two, she tested herself. 

“ He is dead,” she said softly. “ He is quite dead, and 
so are the others. They ” 

But she could not go on. Great shuddering seized on 
her; she shook from head to foot. . . . 

Later that night Mrs. Manners awoke. She tried to 
move her head, but the pain was shocking, and still half 
asleep, she moaned aloud. 

Then the curtains moved softly, and she could see that 
a face was looking at her. 

“ Margy ! Is that you ? ” 

“ Yes, mother.” 

“ Move my head ; move my head. I cannot bear ” 

She felt herself lifted gently and strongly. The struggle 
and the pain exhausted her for a minute, and she lay 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 187 

breathing deeply. Then the ease of the shifted position 
soothed her. 

“ I cannot see your face/’ she said. “ Where is the 
light? ” 

The face disappeared, and immediately, through the 
curtains, the mother saw the light. But still she could not 
see the girl’s face. She said so peevishly. 

“It will weary your eyes. Lie still, mother, and go to 
sleep again.” 

“ What time is it? ” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ Are you not in bed ? ” 

“ Not yet, mother.” 

The sick woman moaned again once or twice, but 
thought no more of it. And presently the deep sleep of 
sickness came down on her again. 

They rose early in those days in England; and soon 
after six o’clock, as Janet had seen nothing of her young 
mistress, she opened the door of the sleeping-room and 
peeped in. ... A minute later Marjorie’s mind rose up out 
of black gulfs of sleep, in which, since her falling asleep 
an hour or two ago, she had wandered, bearing an intoler- 
able burden, which she could neither see nor let fall, to 
find the rosy-streaked face of Janet, all pinched with cold, 
peering into her own. She sat up, wide awake, yet with 
all her world still swaying about her, and stared into her 
maid’s eyes. 

“What is it? What time is it?” 

“ It is after six, mistress. And the mistress seems un- 
easy. I ” 

Marjorie sprang up and went to the bed. 


188 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Ill 

On the evening of that day her mother died. 

There was no priest within reach. A couple of men had 
ridden out early, dispatched by Marjorie within half an 
hour of her awaking — to Dethick, to Hathersage, and to 
every spot within twenty miles where a priest might be 
found, with orders not to return without one. But the 
long day had dragged out; and when dusk was falling, still 
neither had come back. The country was rain-soaked and 
all but impassable, she learned later, across valley after 
valley, where the streams had risen. And nowhere could 
news be gained that any priest was near; for, as a further 
difficulty, open inquiry was not always possible, in view of 
the news that had come to Booth’s Edge last night. The 
girl had understood that the embers were rising again to 
flame in the south; and who could tell but that a careless 
word might kindle the fire here, too. She had been urged 
by Anthony to hold herself more careful than ever, and she 
had been compelled to warn her messengers. 

It was soon after dusk had fallen — the heavy dusk of a 
December day — that her mother had come back again to 
consciousness. She opened her eyes wearily, coming back, 
as Marjorie had herself that morning, from that strange 
realm of heavy and deathly sleep, to the pale phantom 
world called “ life ” ; and agonising pain about the heart 
stabbed her wide awake. 

“O Jesu!” she screamed. 

Then she heard her daughter’s voice, very steady and 
plain, in her ear. 

“ There is no priest, mother dear. Listen to me.” 

“I cannot! I cannot! . . . Jesu!” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


189 


Her eyes closed again for torment, and the sweat ran 
down her face. The slow poison that had weighted and 
soaked her limbs so gradually these many months past, 
was closing in at last upon her heart, and her pain was 
gathering to its last assault. The silent, humorous woman 
was changed into one twitching, uncontrolled incarnation 
of torture. ‘ 

Then again the voice began: 

“ Jesu, Who didst die for love of me — upon the Cross — 
let me die — for love of Thee."’ 

“ Christ ! ” moaned the woman more softly. 

“ Say it in your heart, after me. There is no priest. 
So God will accept your sorrow instead. Now then ” 

Then the old words began — the old acts of sorrow and 
love and faith and hope, that mother and daughter had said 
together, night after night, for so many years. Over and 
over again they came, whispered clear and sharp by the 
voice in her ear; and she strove to follow them. Now and 
again the pain closed its sharp hands upon her heart so 
cruelly that all that on which she strove to fix her mind, 
fled from her like a mist, and she moaned or screamed, or 
was silent with her teeth clenched upon her lip. 

“ My God — I am very sorry — that I have offended 
Thee.” 

“Why is there no priest? . . . Where is the priest?” 

“ Mother, dear, listen. I have sent for a priest . . . but 
none has come. You remember now? ... You remember 

that priests are forbidden now ” 

Where is the priest? ” 

Mother, dear. Three priests were put to death only 
three days ago in London — for . . . for being priests. Ask 
them to pray for you. . . . Say, Edmund Campion pray 
for me. Perhaps . . . perhaps ” 

The girl’s voice died away. 


190 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


For, for a full minute, an extraordinary sensation rested 
on her. It began with a sudden shiver of the flesh, as sharp 
and tingling as water, dying away in long thrills amid her 
hair — that strange advertisement that tells the flesh that 
more than flesh is there, and that the world of spirit is not 
only present, but alive and energetic. Then, as it passed, 
the whole world, too, passed into silence. The curtains 
that shook just now hung rigid as sheets of steel; the woman 
in the bed lay suddenly still, then smiled with closed eyes. 
The pair of maids, kneeling out of sight beyond the bed, 
ceased to sob; and, while the seconds went by, as real as 
any knowledge can be in which the senses have no part, 
the certain knowledge deepened upon the girl who knelt, 
arrested in spite of herself, that a priestly presence was 
here indeed. . . . 

Very slowly, as if lifting great weights, she raised her 
eyes, knowing that there, across the tumbled bed, where 
the darkness of the room showed between the parted cur- 
tains, the Presence was poised. Yet there was nothing 
there to see — no tortured, smoke-stained, throttling face — 
ah! that could not be — but neither was there the merry, 
kindly face, with large cheerful eyes and tender mouth 
smiling; no hand held the curtains that the face might peer 
in. Neither then nor at any time in all her life did Mar- 
jorie believe that she saw him; yet neither then nor in all 
her life did she doubt he had been there while her mother 
died. 

Again her mother smiled — and this time she opened her 
eyes to the full, and there was no dismay in them, nor fear, 
nor disappointment; and she looked a little to her left^ 
where the parted curtains showed the darkness of the 

room. . . . 

Then Marjorie closed her eyes, and laid her head on the 
bed where her mother’s body srank back and down into the 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 191 

pillows. Then the girl slipped heavily to the floor, and the 
maids sprang up screaming. 


IV 

It was not till two hours later that Mr. Simpson arrived. 
He had been found at last at Hathersage, only a few miles 
away, as one of the men, on his return ride, had made one 
last inquiry before coming home; and there he ran into the 
priest himself in the middle of the street. The priest had 
taken the man’s horse and pushed on as well as he could 
through the dark, in the hopes he might yet be in time. 

Marjorie came to him in the parlour downstairs. She 
nodded her head slowly and gravely. 

“ It is over,” she said; and sat down. 

“And there was no priest.^” 

She said nothing. 

She was in her house-dress, with the hood drawn over 
her head as it was a cold night. He was amazed at her 
look of self-control; he had thought to find her either col- 
lapsed or strainedly tragic: he had wondered as he came 
how he would speak to her, how he would soothe her, and 
he saw there was no need. 

She told him presently of the sudden turn for the worse 
early that morning as she herself fell asleep by the bed- 
side ; and a little of what had passed during the day. Then 
she stopped short as she approached the end. 

“ Have you heard the news from London } ” she said. 
“ I mean, of our priests there } ” 

His young face grew troubled, and he knit his forehead. 

“ They are in ward,” he said ; “ I heard a week ago. . . . 
They will banish them from England — they dare not do 
more ! ” 

“ It is all finished,” she said quietly. 


192 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ What!'^ 

“ They were hanged at Tyburn three days ago — the 
three of them together. 

He drew a hissing breathy and felt the skin of his face 
tingle. 

“You have heard that? ” 

“ Mr. Babington came to tell me last night. He left a 
paper with me: I have not read it yet.” 

He watched her as she drew it out and put it before him. 
The terror was on him^ as once or twice before in his jour- 
neyings^ or as when the news of Mr. Nelson’s death had 
reached him — a terror which shamed him to the hearty and 
which he loathed yet could not overcome. He srtill stared 
into her pale face. Then he took the paper and began to 
read it. 

Presently he laid it down again. The sick terror was 
beginning to pass; or, rather, he was able to grip it; and 
he said a conventional word or two; he could do no more. 
There was no exultation in his heart; nothing but misery. 
And then, in despair, he left the subject. 

“And you, mistress,” he said, “what will you do now? 
Have you no aunt or friend ” 

“ Mistress Alice Babington once said she would come 
and live with me — if . . . when I needed it. I shall write 
to her. I do not know what else to do.” 

“ And you will live here ? ” 

“ Why ; more than ever ! ” she said, smiling suddenly. 
“ I can work in earnest now.” 


CHAPTER VI 


I 

It was on a bright evening in the summer that Marjorie, 
with her maid Janet, came riding down to Padley, and 
about the same time a young man came walking up the 
track that led from Derby. In fact, the young man saw 
the two against the skyline and wondered who they were. 
Further, there was a group of four or five walking on the 
terrace below the hous'e, that saw both the approaching 
parties, and commented upon their coming. 

To be precise, there were four persons in the group on 
the terrace, and a man-servant who hung near. The four 
were Mr. John Fitz Herbert, his son Thomas, his son’s wife, 
and, in the midst, leaning on Mrs. FitzHerbert’s arm, was 
old Sir Thomas himself, and it was for his sake that the 
servant was within call, for he was still very sickly 
after his long imprisonment, in spite of his occasional re- 
leases. 

Mr. John saw the visitors first. 

Why, here is the company all arrived together,” he said. 

“ Now, if anything hung on that ” his son broke in, 

uneasily. 

“You are sure of young Owen? ” he said. “Our lives 
will all hang on him after this.” 

His father clapped him gently on the shoulder. 

“ Now, now ! ” he said. “ I know him well enough, from 
my lord. He hath made a dozen such places in this county 
alone.” 

Mr. Thomas glanced swiftly at his uncle. 

“ And you have spoken with him, too, uncle ? ” 

193 


194 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


The old man turned his melancholy eyes on him. 

“ Yes; I have spoken with him,” he said. 

Five minutes later Marjorie was dismounted, and was 
with him. She greeted old Sir Thomas with particular re- 
spect; she had talked with him a year ago when he was 
first released that he might raise his fines; and she knew 
well enough that his liberty was coming to an end. In 
fact, he was technically a prisoner even now; and had only 
been allowed to come for a week or two from Sir Walter 
Aston’s house before going back again to the Fleet. 

** You are come in good time,” said Sir John, smiling. 

“ That is young Owen himself coming up the path.” 

There was nothing particularly noticeable about the 
young man who a minute later was standing before them 
with his cap in his hand. He was plainly of the working 
class; and he had over his shoulder a bag of tools. He 
was dusty up to the knees with his long tramp. Mr. John 
gave him a word of welcome; and then the whole group 
went slowly together back to the house, with the two men 
following. Sir Thomas stumbled a little going up the two 
or three steps into the hall. Then they all sat down to- 
gether; the servant put a big flagon and a horn tumbler 
beside the traveller, and went out, closing the doors. 

Now, my man,” said Mr. John. “ Do you eat and 
drink while I do the talking. I understand you are a man 
of your hands, and that you have business elsewhere.” 

“ I must be in Lancashire by the end of the week, sir.” 

“ Very well, then. We have business enough for you, 
God knows ! This is Mistress Manners, whom you may 
have heard of. And after you have looked at the places we 
have here — you understand me? — Mistress Manners wants 
you at her house at Booth’s Edge. ... You have any 
papers ? ” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 195 

Owen leaned back and drew out a paper from his bag of 
tools. 

“ This is from Mr. Fenton, sir.” 

Mr. John glanced at the address; then he turned it over 
and broke the seal. He stared for a moment at the open 
sheet. 

“ Why, it is blank ! ” he said. 

Owen smiled. He was a grave-looking lad of eighteen or 
nineteen years old ; and his face lighted up very pleasantly. 

“ I have had that trick played on me before, sir, in my 
travels. I understand that Catholic gentlemen do so some- 
times to try the fidelity of the messenger.” 

The other laughed out loud, throwing back his head. 

“ Why, that is a poor compliment ! ” he said. “ You 
shall have a better one from us, I have no doubt.” 

Mr. Thomas leaned over the table and took the paper. 
He examined it very carefully; then he handed it back. 
Flis father laughed again as he took it. 

“ You are very cautious, my son,” he said. “ But it is 
wise enough. . . . Well, then,” he went on to the carpenter, 
“ you are willing to do this work for us? And as for pay- 
ment ” 

“ I ask only my food and lodging,” said the lad quietly; 
“ and enough to carry me on to the next place.” 

“ Why ” began the other in a protest. 

“ No, sir; no more than that. . . .” He paused an in- 
stant. “ I hope to be admitted to the Society of Jesus this 
year or next.” 

There was a pause of astonishment. And then old Sir 
Thomas’ deep voice broke in. 

“You do very well, sir. I heartily congratulate you. 
And I would I were twenty years younger myself. . . 


196 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


II 

After supper that night the entire party went upstairs 
to the chapel. 

Young Hugh Owen even already was beginning to be 
known among Catholics^ for his extraordinary skill in con- 
structing hiding-holes. Up to the present not much more 
had been attempted than little secret recesses where the 
vessels of the altar and the vestments might be concealed. 
But the young carpenter had been ingenious enough in two 
or three houses to which he had been called^ to enlarge 
these so considerably that even two or three men might 
be sheltered in them; and, now that it seemed as if the 
persecution of recusants was to break out again, the idea 
began to spread. Mr. John FitzHerbert while in London 
had heard of his skill, and had taken means to get at the 
young man, for his own house at Padley. 

Owen was already at work when the party came upstairs. 
He had supped alone, and, with a servant to guide him, 
had made the round of the house, taking measurements in 
every possible place. He was seated on the floor as they 
came in ; three or four panels lay on the ground beside him, 
and a heap of plaster and stones. 

He looked up as they came in. 

“ This will take me all night, sir,” he said. “ And the 
fire must be put out below.” 

He explained his plan. The old hiding-place was but a 
poor affair; it consisted of a space large enough for only 
one man, and was contrived by a section of the wall having 
been removed, all but the outer row of stones made thin for 
the purpose; the entrance to it was through a tall sliding 
panel on the inside of the chapel. Its extreme weakness as 
a hiding-hole lay in the fact that anyone striking on the 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


197 


panel could not fail to hear how hollow it rang. This he 
proposed to do away with, unless, indeed, he left a small 
space for the altar vessels ; and to construct instead a little 
chamber in the chimney of the hall that was built against 
this wall; he would contrive it so that an entrance was still 
from the chapel, as well as one that he would make over 
the hearth below ; and that the smoke should be conducted 
round the little enclosed space, passing afterwards up the 
usual , vent. The chamber would be large enough, he 
thought, for at least two men. He explained, too, his 
method of deadening the hollowness of the sound if the 
panel were knocked upon, by placing pads of felt on struts 
of wood that would be set against the panel-door. 

“ Why, that is very shrewd ! ” cried Mr. John. He looked 
round the faces for approval. 

For an hour or so, the party sat and watched him at his 
work; and Marjorie listened to their talk. It was of that 
which filled the hearts of all Catholics at this time; of the 
gathering storm in England, of the priests that had been 
executed this very year — Mr. Paine at Chelmsford, in 
March; Mr. Forde, Mr. Shert and Mr. Johnson, at Ty- 
burn in May, the first of the three having been taken with 
Father Campion at Lyford — deaths that were followed 
two days later by the execution of four more — one of whom, 
Mr. Filbie, had also been arrested at Lyford. And there 
were besides a great number more in prison — Mr. Cottam, 
it was known, had been taken at York, scarcely a week 
ago, and, it was said, would certainly suffer before long. 

They talked in low voices; for the shadow was on all 
their hearts. It had been possible almost to this very year 
to hope that the misery would be a passing one; but the 
time for hope was gone. It remained only to bear what 
came, to multiply priests, and, if necessary, martyrs, and 
meantime to take such pains for protection as they could. 


198 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


“ He will be a clever pursuivant who finds this one out_i” 
said Mr. John. 

The carpenter looked up from his work. 

“ But a clever one will find it,” he said. 

Mr. Thomas was heard to sigh. 

Ill 

It was on the afternoon of the following day that Mar- 
jorie rode up to her house with Janet beside her, and Hugh 
Owen walking by her horse. 

He had finished his work at Padley an hour or two after 
dawn — for he worked at night when he could, and had 
then gone to rest. But he had been waiting for her when 
her horses were brought, and asked if he might walk with 
her; he had asked it simply and easily, saying that it 
might save his losing his way, and time was precious to 
him. 

Marjorie felt very much interested by this lad, for he 
was no more than that. In appearance he was like any of 
his kind, with a countryman’s face, in a working-dress: 
she might have seen him by chance a hundred times and 
not known him again. But his manner was remarkable, 
so wholly simple and well-bred: he was courteous always, 
as suited his degree; but he had something of the same 
assurance that she had noticed so plainly in Father Cam- 
pion. (He talked witli a plain. Northern dialect.) 

Presently she opened on that very point; for she could 
talk freely before Janet. 

“ Did you ever know Father Campion? ” she asked. 

“ I have never spoken with him, mistress. I have heard 
him preach. It was that which put it in my heart to join 
the company.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


199 


“ You heard him preach? ” 

“ Yes, mistress ; three or four times in Essex and Hert- 
fordshire. I heard him preach upon the young man who 
came to our Saviour.” 

“Tell me,” she said, looking down at what she could see 
of his face. 

“ It was liker an angel than a man,” he said quietly. 
“ I could not take my eyes off him from his first word to 
the last. And all were the same that were there.” 

“ Was he eloquent? ” 

“ Aye ; you might call it that. But I thought it to be the 
Spirit of God.” 

“ And it was then you made up your mind to join the 
Society ? ” 

“ There was no rest for me till I did. ‘ And Christ also 
went away sorrowful,’ were his last words. And I could 
not bear to think that.” 

Marjorie was silent through pure sympathy. This 
young man spoke a language she understood better than 
that which some of her friends used — Mr. Babington, for 
instance. It was the Person of Jesus Christ that was all 
her religion to her; it was for this that she was devout, 
that she went to mass and the sacraments when she could; 
it was this that made Mary dear to her. Was He not her 
son? And, above all, it was for this that she had sacrificed 
Robin: she could not bear that he should not serve Him as 
a priest, if he might. But the other talk that she had 
heard sometimes — of the place of religion in politics, and 
the justification of this or that course of public action — 
well, she knew that these things must be so; yet it was not 
the manner of her own most intimate thought, and the 
language of it was not hers. 

The two went together so a few paces, without speaking. 
Then she had a sudden impulse. 


200 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ And do you ever think of what may come upon you? 
she asked. “ Do you ever think of the end? ” 

“ Aye,” he said. 

“ And what do you think the end will be ? ” 

She saw him raise his eyes to her an instant. 

“ I think,” he said, '‘that I shall die for my faith some 
day.” 

That same strange shiver that passed over her at her 
mother’s bedside, passed over her again, as if material 
things grew thin about her. There was a tone in his voice 
that made it absolutely clear to her that he was not speak- 
ing of a fancy, but of some certain knowledge that he had. 
Yet she dared not ask him, and she was a middle-aged 
woman before the news came to her of his death upon the 
rack. 


IV 

It was a sleepy-eyed young man that came into the 
kitchen early next morning, where the ladies and the maids 
were hard at work all together upon the business of baking. 
The baking was a considerable task each week, for there 
were not less than twenty mouths, all told, to feed in the 
hall day by day, including a widow or two that called each 
day for rations; and a great part, therefore, of a mistress’s 
time in such houses was taken up with such things. 

Marjorie turned to him, with her arms floured to the 
elbow. 

“Well? ” she said, smiling. 

“ I have done, mistress. Will it please you to see it 
before I go and sleep ? ” 

They had examined the house carefully last night, 
measuring and sounding in the deep and thin walls alike, 
for there was at present no convenience at all for a hunted 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


201 


man. Owen had obtained her consent to two or three 
alternative proposals_, and she had then left him to himself. 
From her bed, that she had had prepared, with Alice Bab- 
ington’s, in a loft — turning out for the night the farm-men 
who had usually slept there, she had heard more than once 
the sound of distant hammering from the main front of 
the house where her own room lay, that had been once her 
mother’s as well. 

The possibilities in this little manor were small. To con- 
struct a passage, giving an exterior escape, as had been 
made in some houses, would have meant here a labour of 
weeks, and she had told the young man she would be con- 
tent with a simple hiding-hole. Yet, although she did not 
expect great things, and knew, moreover, the kind of place 
that he would make, she was as excited as a child, in a 
grave sort of way, at what she would see. 

He took her first into the parlour, where years ago Robin 
had talked with her in the wintry sunshine. The open 
chimney was on the right as they entered, and though she 
knew that somewhere on that same side would be one of 
the two entrances that had been arranged, all the difference 
she could see was that a piece of the wall-hanging that had 
been between the window and the fire was gone, and that 
there hung in its place an old picture painted on a panel. 
She looked at this without speaking: the wall was wains- 
coted in oak, as it had always been, six feet up from the 
floor. Then an idea came to her: she tilted the picture on 
one side. But there was no more to be seen than a cracked 
panel, which, it seemed to her, had once been nearer the 
door. She rapped upon this, but it gave back the dull 
sound as of wood against stone. 

She turned to the young man, smiling. He smiled back. 

“ Come into the bedroom, mistress.” 

He led her in there, through the passage outside into 


202 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


which the two doors opened at the head of the outside 
stairs; but here, too, all that she could see was that a tall 
press that had once stood between the windows now stood 
against the wall immediately opposite to the painted panel 
on the other side of the wall. She opened the doors of the 
press, but it was as it had always been: there even hung 
there the three or four dresses that she had taken from it 
last night and laid on the bed. 

She laughed outright, and, turning, saw Mistress Alice 
Babington beaming tranquilly from the door of the room. 

“ Come in, Alice,” she said, “ and see this miracle.” 

Then he began to explain it. 

On this side was the entrance proper, and, as he said so, 
he stepped up into the press and closed the doors. They 
could hear him fumbling within, then the sound of wood 
sliding, and finally a muffled voice calling to them. Mar- 
jorie fiung the doors open, and, save for the dresses, it was 
empty. She stared in for a moment, still hearing the move- 
ments of someone beyond, and at last the sound of a snap ; 
and as she withdrew her head to exclaim to Alice, the 
young man walked into the room through the open door 
behind her. 

Then he explained it in full. 

The back of the press had been removed, and then re- 
placed, in such a manner that it would slide out about 
eighteen inches towards the window, but only when the 
doors of the press were closed; when they were opened, 
they drew out simultaneously a slip of wood on either 
side that pulled the sliding door tight and immovable. Be- 
hind the back of the press, thus removed, a corresponding 
part of the wainscot slid in the same way, giving a narrow 
doorway into the cell which he had excavated between the 
double beams of the thick wall. Next, when the person 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


203 


that had taken refuge was inside, with the two sliding 
doors closed behind him, it was possible for him, by an 
extremely simple device, to turn a wooden button and thus 
release a little wooden machinery which controlled a further 
opening into the parlour, and which, at the same time, was 
braced against the hollow panelling and one of the higher 
beams in such a manner as to give it, when knocked upon, 
the dullness of sound the girl had noticed just now. But 
this door could only be opened from within. Neither a 
fugitive nor a pursuer could make any entrance from the 
parlour side, unless the wainscoting itself were torn off. 
Lastly, the crack in the woodwork, corresponding with two 
minute holes bored in the painted panel, afforded, when the 
picture was hung exactly straight, a view of the parlour 
that commanded nearly all the room. 

“ I do not pretend that it is a fortress,” said the young 
man, smiling gravely. “ But it may serve to keep out a 
country constable. And, indeed, it is the best I can con- 
trive in this house.” 


CHAPTER VII 


I 

Marjorie found it curious, even to herself, how the press 
that faced the foot of the two beds where she and Alice 
slept side by side, became associated in her mind with the 
thought of Robin; and she began to perceive that it was 
largely with the thought of him in her intention that the 
idea had first presented itself of having the cell constructed 
at all. It was not that in her deliberate mind she conceived 
that he would be hunted, that he would fly here, that she 
would save him; but rather in that strange realm of con- 
sciousness which is called sometimes the Imagination, and 
sometimes by other names — that inner s'hadow-show on 
which move figures cast by the two worlds — she perceived 
him in this place. ... 

It was in the following winter that she was reminded of 
him by other means than those of his letters. 

The summer and autumn had passed tranquilly enough, 
so far as this outlying corner of England was concerned. 
News filtered through of the stirring world outside, and 
especially was there conveyed to her, through Alice for the 
most part, news that concerned the fortunes of Catholics. 
Politics, except in this connection, meant little enough to 
such as her. She heard, indeed, from time to time vague 
rumours of fighting, and of foreign Powers; and thought 
now and again of Spain, as of a country that might yet 
be, in God’s hand, an instrument for the restoring of God’s 
cause in England; she had heard, too, in this year, of one 
more rumour of the Queen’s marriage with the Duke 

204 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


205 


d’Alen9on, and then of its final rupture. But these matters 
were aloof from her; rather she pondered such things as 
the execution of two more priests at York in August, Mr. 
Lacy and Mr. Kirkman, and of a third, Mr. Thompson, in 
November at the same place. It was on such affairs as 
these that she pondered as she went about her household 
business, or sat in the chamber upstairs with Mistress Alice ; 
and it was of these things that she talked with the few 
priests that came and went from time to time in their cir- 
cuits about Derbyshire. It was a life of quietness and 
monotony inconceivable by those who live in towns. Its 
sole incident lay in that life which is called Interior. . . . 

It was soon after the New Year that she met the squire 
of Matstead face to face. 

She and Alice, with Janet and a man riding behind, were 
on their way back from Derby, where they had gone for 
their monthly shopping. They had slept at Dethick, and 
had had news there of Mr. Anthony, who was again in the 
south on one of his mysterious missions, and started again 
soon after dawn next day to reach home, if they could, for 
dinner. 

She knew Alice now for what she was — a woman of as- 
tounding dullness, of sterling character, and of a complete 
inability to understand any shades or tones of character or 
thought that were not her own, and yet a friend in a 
thousand, of an immovable stability and loyalty, one of 
no words at all, who dwelt in the midst of a steady kind of 
light which knew no dawn nor sunset. The girl enter- 
tained herself sometimes with conceiving of her friend con- 
fronted with the rack, let us say, or the gallows; and per- 
ceived that she knew with exactness what her behaviour 
would be: She would do all that was required of her with- 
out speeches or protest; she would place herself in the re- 


206 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


quired positions, with a faint smile, unwavering; she would 
suffer or die with the same tranquil steadiness as that in 
which she lived; and, best of all, she would not be aware, 
even for an instant, that anything in her behaviour was in 
the least admirable or exceptional. She resembled, to 
Marjorie’s mind, that for which a strong and well-built 
arm-chair stands' in relation to the body: it is the same 
always, supporting and sustaining always, and cannot even 
be imagined as anything else. 

It was a brilliant frosty day, as they rode over the rutted 
track between hedges that s'erved for a road, that ran, for 
the most part, a field or two away from the black waters of 
the Derwent. The birches stood about them like frozen 
feathers; the vast chestnuts towered overhead, motionless 
in the motionless air. As they came towards Matstead, 
and, at last, rode up the street, naturally enough Marjorie 
again began to think of Robin. As they came near where 
the track turned the corner beneath the churchyard wall, 
where once Robin had watched, himself unseen, the three 
riders go by, she had to attend to her horse, who slipped 
once or twice on the paved causeway. Then as she lifted 
her head again, she saw, not three yards from her, and on 
a level with her own face, the face of the squire looking at 
her from over the wall. 

She had not seen him, except once in Derby, a year or 
two before, and that at a distance, since Robin had left 
England; and at the sight she started so violently, in some 
manner jerking the reins that she held, that her horse, tired 
with the long ride of the day before, slipped once again, 
and came down all asprawl on the stones, fortunately throw- 
ing her clear of his struggling feet. She was up in a mo- 
ment, but again sank down, aware that her foot was in 
some way bruised or twisted. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


207 


There was a clatter of hoofs behind her as the servants 
rode up; a child or two ran up the street, and when, at 
last, on Janet’s arm, she rose again to her feet, it was to 
see the squire staring at her, with his hands clasped behind 
his back. 

“ Bring the ladies up to the house,” he said abruptly to 
the man; and then, taking the rein of the girl’s horse that 
had struggled up again, he led the way, without another 
word, without even turning his head, round to the way that 
ran up to his gates. 


II 

It was not with any want of emotion that Marjorie found 
herself presently meekly seated upon Alice’s horse, and 
riding up at a foot’s-pace beneath the gatehouse of the 
Hall. Rather it was the balance of emotions that made her 
so meek and so obedient to her friend’s tranquil assumption 
that she must come in as the squire said. She was aware 
of a strong resentment to his brusque order, as well as to 
the thought that it was to the house of an apostate that 
she was going; yet there was a no less strong emotion 
within her that he had a sort of right to command her. 
These feelings, working upon her, dazed as she was by the 
sudden sharpness of her fall, and the pain in her foot, 
combined to drive her along in a kind of resignation in 
the wake of the squire. 

Still confused, yet with a rapid series of these same emo- 
tions rumiing before her mind, she limped up the steps, 
supported by Alice and her maid, and sat down on a bench 
at the end of the hall. The squire, who had shouted an 
order or two to a peeping domestic, as he passed up the 
court, came to her immediately with a cup in his hand. 

“ You must drink this at once, mistress.” 


208 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


She took it at once, drank and set it down, aware of the 
keen, angry-looking face that watched her. 

“ You will dine here, too, mistress ” he began, still 

with a sharp kindness. . . . And then, on a sudden, all 
grew dark about her; there was a roaring in her ears, and 
she fainted. 

She came out of her swoon again, after a while, with 
that strange and innocent clearness that usually follows 
such a thing, to find Alice beside her, a tapestried wall be- 
hind Alice, and the s'ound of a crackling fire in her ears. 
Then she perceived that she was in a small room, lying on 
her back along a bench, and that someone was bathing her 
foot. 

“ I ... I will not stay here she began. But 

two hands held her firmly down, and Alice’s reassuring 
face was looking into her own. 

When her mind ran clearly again, she sat up with a 
sudden movement, drawing her foot away from Janet’s 
ministrations. 

“ I do very well,” she said, after looking at her foot, 
and then putting it to the ground amid a duet of protesta- 
tions. (She had looked round the room to satisfy herself 
that no one else was there, and had seen that it must be 
the parlour that she was in. A newly-lighted fire burned 
on the hearth, and the two doors were closed.) 

Then Alice explained. 

It was impossible, she said, to ride on at once; the horse 
even now was being bathed in the stable, as his mistress 
in the parlour. The squire had been most considerate; 
he had helped to carry her in here just now, had lighted the 
fire with his own hands, and had stated that dinner would 
be sent in here in an hour for the three women. He had 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


209 


offered to send one of hisr own men on to Booth’s Edge with 
the news, if Mistress Marjorie found herself unable to ride 
on after dinner. 

“ But . . . but it is Mr. Audrey! ” exclaimed Marjorie. 

“ Yes, my dear,” said Alice. “ I know it is. But that 
does not mend your foot,” she said, with unusual curtness. 
And Marjorie saw that she still looked at her anxiously. 

The three women dined together, of course, in an hour’s 
time. There was no escape from the pressure of circum- 
stance. It was unfortunate that such an accident should 
have fallen out here, in the one place in all the world where 
it should not; but the fact was a fact. Meanwhile, it w'as 
not only resentment that Marjorie felt: it was a strange 
sort of terror as well — a terror of sitting in the house of an 
apostate — of one who had freely and deliberately renounced 
that faith for which she herself lived so completely; and 
that it was the father of one whom she knew as she knew 
Robin — with whose fate, indeed, her own had been so inti- 
mately entwined — this combined to increase that indefin- 
able fear that rested on her as she stared round the 
walls, and sat over the food and drink that this man 
provided. 

The climax came as they were finishing dinner: for the 
door from the hall opened abruptly, and the squire came 
in. He bowed to the ladies, as the manner was, straighten- 
ing his trim, tight figure again defiantly; asked a civil 
question or two; directed a servant behind him to bring 
the horses to the parlour door in half an hour’s time; and 
then snapped out the sentence which he was, plainly, impa- 
tient to speak. 

“ Mistress Manners,” he said, ” I wish to have a word 
with you privately.” 

Marjorie, trembling at his presence, turned a wavering 


210 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


face to her friend; and Alice, before the other could speak, 
rose upy and went out, with Janet following. 

“ Janet ” cried the girl. 

“If you please,” said the old man, with such a decisive 
air that she hesitated. Then she nodded at her maid; and 
a moment later the door closed. 

Ill 

“ I have two matters to speak of,” said the squire 
abruptly, sitting down in the chair that Alice had left; 
“ the first concerns you closely ; and the other less closely.” 

She looked at him, summoning all her power to appear 
at her ease. 

He seemed far older than when she had last spoken with 
him, perhaps five years ago ; and had grown a little pointed 
beard ; his hair, too, seemed thinner — such of it as she could 
see beneath the house-cap that he wore ; his face, especially 
about his blue, angry-looking eyes, was covered with fine 
wrinkles, and his hands were clearly the hands of an old 
man, at once delicate and sinewy. He was in a dark suit, 
still with his cloak upon him; and in low boots. He sat 
still as upright as ever, turned a little in his chair, so as 
to clasp its back with one strong hand. 

“Yes, sir.^” she said. 

“ I will begin with the second first. It is of my son 
Robin: I wish to know what news you have of him. He 
hath not written to me this six months back. And I hear 
that letters sometimes come to you from him.” 

Marjorie hesitated. 

“ He is very well, so far as I know,” she said. 

“ And when is he to be made priest ? ” he demanded 
sharply. 

Marjorie drew a breath to give herself time; she knew 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


211 


that she must not answer this; and did not know how to 
say so with civility. 

“ If he has not told you himself, sir/’ she said, “ I can- 
not.” 

The old man’s face twitched; but he kept his manners. 

“ I understand you, mistress. . . .” But then his wrath 
overcame him. “ But he must understand he will have no 
mercy from me, if he comes my way. I am a magistrate, 
now, mistress, and ” 

A thought like an inspiration came to the girl; and she 
interrupted; for she longed to penetrate this man’s armour. 

“ Perhaps that was why he did not tell you when he was 
to be made priest,” she said. 

The other seemed taken aback. 

Why, but ” 

” He did not wish to think that his father would be un- 
true to his new commission,” she said, trembling at her 
boldness and yet exultant too ; and taking no pains to keep 
the irony out of her voice. 

Again that fierce twitch of the features went over the 
other’s face; and he stared straight at her with narrowed 
eyes. Then a change again came over him; and he 
laughed, like barking, yet not all unkindly. 

“ You are very shrewd, mistress. But I wonder what 
you will think of me when I tell you the second matter, 
since you will tell me no more of the first.” 

He shifted his position in his chair, this time clasping 
both his hands together over the back. 

“Well; it is this in a word,” he said: “ It is that you 
had best look to yourself, mistress. My lord Shrewsbury 
even knows of it.” 

“Of what, if you please.^” asked the girl, hoping she 
had not turned white. 

“ Why, of the priests that come and go hereabouts ! It 


212 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


is all known; and her Grace hath sent a message from the 
Council 

** What has this to do with me ? ** 

He laughed again. 

“Well; let us take your neighbours at Padley. They 
will be in trouble if they do not look to their goings. Mr. 
FitzHerbert ” 

But again she interrupted him. She was determined to 
know how much he knew. She had thought that she had 
been discreet enough, and that no news had leaked out of 
her own entertaining of priests; it was chiefly that discre- 
tion might be preserved that she had set her hands to the 
work at all. With Padley so near it was thought that less 
suspicion would be aroused. Her name had never yet come 
before the authorities, so far as she knew. 

“ But what has all this to do with me, sir } ” she asked 
sharply. “It is true that I do not go to church, and that 
I pay my fines when they are demanded. Are there new 
laws, then, against the old faith ? ” 

She spoke with something of real bitterness. It was 
genuine enough; her only art lay in her not concealing it; 
for she was determined to press her question home. And, 
in his shrewd, compelling face, she read her answer even 
before his words gave it. 

“ Well, mistress; it was not of you that I meant to speak 
— so much as of your friends. They are your friends, not 
mine. And as your friends, I thought it to be a kindly 
action to send them an advertisement. If they are not 
careful, there will be trouble.’^ 

“At Padley?’* 

“ At Padley, or elsewhere. It is the persons that fall 
under the law, not places ! ” 

“ But, sir, you are a magistrate ; and ” 

He sprang up, his face aflame with real wrath. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


213 


“Yes, mistress; I am a magistrate: the commission hath 
come at last, after six months’ waiting. But I was friend 
to the FitzHerberts before ever I was a magistrate, 
and ” 

Then she understood; and her heart went out to him. 
She, too, stood up, catching at the table with a hiss of pain 
as she threw her weight on the bruised foot. He made a 
movement towards her; but she waved him aside. 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Audrey, with all my heart. I 
had thought that you meant harm, perhaps, to my friends 
and me. But now I see ” 

“ Not a word more! not a word more! ” he cried harshly, 
with a desperate kind of gesture. “ I s'hall do my duty none 
the less when the time comes ” 

“Sir!” she cried out suddenly. “For God’s sake do 
not speak of duty — there is another duty greater than that. 
Mr. Audrey ” 

He wheeled away from her, with a movement she could 
not interpret. It might be uncontrolled anger or misery, 
equally. And her heart went out to him in one great flood. 

“ Mr. Audrey. It is not too late. Your son Robin ” 

Then he wheeled again; and his face was distorted with 
emotion. 

“Yes', my son Robin! my son Robin! ... How dare 
you speak of him to me? . . . Yes; that is it — my son 
Robin — my son Robin ! ” 

He dropped into the chair again, and his face fell upon 
his clasped hands. 


IV 

She scarcely knew how circumstances had arranged them- 
selves up to the time when she found herself riding away 
again with Alice, while a man of Mr. Audrey’s led her 


214 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


horse. They could not talk freely till he left them at the 
place where the stony road turned to a soft track, and it 
was safe going once more. Then Alice told her own side 
of it. 

“Yes, my dear; I heard him call out. I was walking 
in the hall with Janet to keep ourselves warm. But when 
I ran in he was sitting down, and you were standing. What 
was the matter ^ ” 

“ Alice,” said the girl earnestly, “ I wish you had not 
come in. He is very heart-broken, I think. He would 
have told me more, I think. It is about his son.” 

“His son! Why, he ” 

“ Yes ; I know that. And he would not see him if he 
came back. He has had his magistrate’s commission; and 
he will be true to it. But he is heart-broken for all that. 
He has not really lost the Faith, I think.” 

“Why, my dear; that is foolish. He is very hot in 
Derby, I hear, against the Papists. There was a poor 
woman who could not pay her fines; and ” 

Marjorie waved it aside. 

“Yes; he would be very hot; but for all that, there is 
his son Robin you know — and his memories. And Robin 
has not written to him for six months. That would be 
about the time when he told him he was to be a magistrate.” 

Then Marjorie told her of the whole that had passed, 
and of his mention of the FitzHerberts. 

“ And what he meant by that,” she said, “ I do not know ; 
but I will tell them.” 

She was pondering deeply all the way as she rode home. 
Mistress Alice was one of those folks who so long as they 
are answered in words are content; and Marjorie so 
answered her. And all the while she thought upon Robin, 
and his passionate old father, and attempted to understand 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


215 


the emotions that fought in the heart that had so disclosed 
itself to her — its aged obstinacy, its loyalty and its confused 
honourableness. She knew very well that he would do 
what he conceived to be his duty with all the more zeal if it 
were an unpleasant duty; and she thanked God that it was 
not for a good while yet that the lad would come home a 
priest. 


CHAPTER VIII 


I 

The warning which she had had with regard to her friends, 
and which she wrote on to them at once, received its ful- 
filment within a very few weeks. Mr. John, who was on 
the eve of departure for London again to serve his brother 
there, who was back again in the Fleet by now, wrote that 
he knew very well that they were all under suspicion, that 
he had sent on to his son the message she had given, but 
that he hoped they would yet weather the storm. 

“And as to yourself. Mistress Marjorie,” he wrote, 
“ this makes it all the more necessary that Booth’s Edge 
should not be suspected ; for what will our men do if Padley 
be closed to them? You have heard of our friend Mr. 
Garlick’s capture? But that was no fault of yours. The 
man was warned. I hear that they will send him into 
banishment, only, this time.” 

The news came to her as she sat in the garden over her 
needlework on a hot evening in June. There it was as cool 
as anywhere in the countryside. She sat at the top of the 
garden, where her mother and she had sat with Robin so 
long before; the breeze that came over the moor bore with 
it the scent of the heather; and the bees were busy in the 
garden flowers about her. 

It was first the gallop of a horse that she heard; and 
even at that sound she laid down her work and stood up. 
But the house below her blocked the most of her view; and 
she sat down again when she heard the dull rattle of the 
hoofs die away again. When she next looked up a man 

216 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


217 


was? running towards her from the bottom of the garden, 
and Janet was peeping behind him from the gate into the 
court. As she again stood up, she saw that it was Dick 
Sampson. 

He was so out of breath, first with his ride and next with 
his run up the steep path, that for a moment or two he 
could not speak. He was dusty, too, from foot to knee ; his 
cap was awry and his collar unbuttoned. 

“ It is Mr. Thomas, mistress,” he gasped presently. “ I 
was in Derby and saw him being taken to the gaol. ... I 
could not get speech with him. ... I rode straight up to 
Padley, and found none there but the servants, and them 
knowing nothing of the matter. And so I rode on here, 
mistress.” 

He was plainly all aghast at the blow. Hitherto it had 
been enough that Sir Thomas was in ward for his religion; 
and to this they had become accustomed. But that the heir 
should be taken, too, and that without a hint of what was 
to happen, was wholly unexpected. She made him sit 
down, and presently drew from him the whole tale. 

Mr. Anthony Babington, his master, was away to Lon- 
don again, leaving the house in Derby in the hands of the 
servants. He then — Dick Sampson — was riding out early 
to take a horse to be shoed, and had come back through 
the town-square, when he saw the group ride up to the gaol 
door near the Friar Gate. He, too, had ridden up to ask 
what was forward, and had been just in time to see Mr. 
Thomas taken in. He had caught his eye, but had feigned 
not to know him. Then the man had attempted to get at 
what had happened from one of the fellowsr at the door, 
but could get no more from him than that the prisoner was 
a known and confessed recusant, and had been laid by the 
heels according to orders, it was believed, sent down by 
the Council. Then Dick had ridden slowly away till he 


218 COME RACK! COME ROPE! 

had turned the corner, and then, hot foot for Pad- 

ley. 

“ And I heard the fellov/ say to one of his company that 
an informer was coming down from London on purpose to 
deal with Mr. Thomas.” 

Marjorie felt a sudden pang; for she had never forgotten 
the one she had set eyes on in the Tower. 

“His name.^ ” she said breathlessly. “Did you hear 
his name ? ” 

“ It was Topcliffe, mistress,” said Dick indifferently. 
“ The other called it out.” 

Marjorie sat silent. Not only had the blow fallen more 
swiftly than she would have thought possible, but it was 
coupled with a second of which she had never dreamed. 
That it was this man, above all others, that should have 
come; this man, who stood to her mind, by a mere chance, 
for all that was most dreadful in the sinister forces arrayed 
against her — this brought misery down on her indeed. For, 
besides her own personal reasons for terror, there was, 
besides, the knowledge that the bringing of such a man at 
all from London on such business meant that the movement 
beginning here in her own county was not a mere caprice. 

She sat silent then — seeing once more before her the wide 
court of the Tower, the great keep opposite, and in the 
midst that thin figure moving to his hateful business. . . . 
And she knew now, in this instant, as never before, that 
the chief reason for her terror was that she had coupled in 
her mind her own friend Robin with the thought of this 
man, as if by some inner knowledge that their lives must 
cross some day — a knowledge which she could neither 
justify nor silence. Thank God, at least, that Robin was 
still safe in Rheims! 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


219 


II 

She sent him off after a couple of hours’ rest, during 
which once more he had told his story to Mistress Alice, 
with a letter to Mr. Thomas’s wife, who, no doubt, would 
have followed her lord to Derby. She had gone apart with 
Alice, while Dick ate and drank, to talk the affair out, and 
had told her of Topcliffe’s presence, at which news even 
the placid face of her friend looked troubled; but they had 
said nothing more on the point, and had decided that a letter 
should be written in Mistress Babington’s name, offering 
Mrs. FitzHerbert the hospitality of Babington House, and 
any other services she* might wish. Further, they had 
decided that the best thing to do was to go themselves to 
Derby next day, in order to be at hand; since Mr. John 
was in London, and the sooner Mrs. Thomas had friends 
with her, the better. 

“ They may keep him in ward a long time,” said Mistress 
Alice, ” before they bring him into open court — to try his 
courage. That is the way they do. The charge, no doubt, 
will be that he has harboured and assisted priests.” 

It s'eemed to Marjorie, as she lay awake that night, 
staring through the summer dusk at the tall press which 
hid so much beside her dresses, that the course on which 
her life moved was coming near to the rapids. Ever since 
she had first put her hand to the work, ever since, even, 
she had first offered her lover to God and let him go from 
her, it appeared as if God had taken her at her word, and 
accepted in an instant that which she offered so tremblingly. 
Her sight of London — the great buildings, the crowds, the 
visible forces of the Crown, the company of gallant gentle- 
men who were priests beneath their ruffs and feathers, the 
Tower, her glimpse of Topcliffe — these things had shown 


220 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


her the dreadful reality that lay behind this gentle 
scheming up in Derbyshire. Again^ there was Mr. Babing- 
ton; here^ too, she had perceived a mystery which she 
could not understand: something moved behind the surface 
of which not even Mr. Babington’s sister knew anything, 
except that, indeed, it was there. Again, there was the 
death of Father Campion — the very man whom she had 
taken as a symbol of the Faith for which she fought with 
her woman’s wits; there was the news that came so sud- 
denly and terribly now and again, of one more priest gone 
to his death. ... It was like the slow rising of a storm: 
the air darkens; a stillness falls on the countryside; the 
chirp of the birds seems as a plaintive word of fear; then 
the thunder begins — a low murmur far across the horizons ; 
then a whisk of light, seen and gone again, and another 
murmur after it. And so it gathers, dusk on dusk, stillness 
on stillness, murmur on murmur, deepening and thicken- 
ing; yet still no rain, but a drop or two that falls and 
ceases again. And from the very delay it is all the more 
dreadful; for the storm itself must break some time, and 
the artillery war in the heavens, and the rain rush down, 
and flash follow flash, and peal peal, and the climax come. 

So, then, it was with her. There was no drawing back 
now, even had she wished it. And she wished it indeed, 
though she did not will it ; she knew that she must stand 
in her place, now more than ever, when the blow had fallen 
so near. Now more than ever must she be discreet and 
resolute, since Padley itself was fallen, in effect, if not in 
fact; and Booth’s Edge, in this valley at least, was the one 
hope of hunted men. She must stand, then, in her place; 
she must plot and conspire and scheme; she must govern 
her face and her manner more perfectly than ever, for the 
sake of that tremendous Cause. 

As she lay there, listening to her friend’s breathing in 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


221 


the darkness,, staring now at the doors of the press, now at 
the baggage that lay heaped ready for the early start, these 
and a thousand other thoughts passed before her. It was 
a long plot that had ended in this: it must have reached 
its maturity weeks ago; the decision to strike must have 
been reached before even Squire Audrey had given her the 
warning — for it was only by chance that she had met him 
and he had told her. . . . And he, too, Robin’s father, 
would be in the midst of it all; he, too, that was a Catholic 
by baptism, must sit with the other magistrates and threaten 
and cajole as the manner was; and quiet Derby would be all 
astir; and the Bassetts would be there, and Mr. Fenton, to 
see how their friend fared in the dock; and the crowds 
would gather to see the prisoner brought out, and the hunt 
would be up. And she herself, she, too, must be there with 
the tearful little wife, who could do so little. . . . 

Thank God Robin was safe in Rheims! . . . 

Ill 

Derby was, indeed, astir as they rode in, with the serv- 
ants and the baggage following behind, on the late after- 
noon of the next day. They had ridden by easy stages, 
halting at Dethick for dinner, where the Babingtons’ house 
already hummed with dismay at the news that had come 
from Derby last night. Mr. Anthony was away, and all 
seemed distracted. 

They rode in by the North road, seeing for the last mile 
or two of their ride the towering spire of All Saints’ 
Church high above the smoke of the houses ; they passed the 
old bridge half a mile from the market-place, near the 
ancient camp; and even here overheard a sentence or two 
from a couple of fellows that were leaning on the parapet, 
that told them what was the talk of the town. It was 


222 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


plain that others besides the Catholics understood the 
taking of Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert to be a very signifi- 
cant matter. 

Babington Hous'e stood on the further side of the market- 
place from that on which they entered^ and Alice was for 
going there through side streets. 

“ They will take notice if we go straight through_,” she 
said. “ It is cheese-market to-day.” 

“ They will take notice in any case/’ said Marjorie. “ It 
will be over the town to-morrow that Mistress Babington is 
here^ and it is best, therefore, to come openly, as if without 
fear.” 

And she turned to beckon the servants to draw up closer 
behind. 

The square was indeed crowded as they came in. From 
all the country round, and especially from Dovedale, the 
farmers came in on this day, or sent their wives, for the 
selling of cheeses; and the small oblong of the market — 
the smaller from its great Conduit and Cross — was full 
with rows of stalls and carts, with four lanes only left along 
the edges by which the traffic might pass ; and even here the 
streams of passengers forced the horses to go in single file. 
Groups of men — farmers’ servants who had driven in the 
carts, or walked with the pack-beasts — ^to whom this day 
was a kind of feast, stood along the edges of the booths 
eyeing all who went by. The inns, too, were doing a roar- 
ing trade, and it was from one of these that the only 
offensive comment was made. 

Mistress Babington rode first, as suited her dignity, pre- 
ceded by one of the Dethick men whom they had taken up 
on their way, and who had pushed forward when they came 
into the town to clear the road ; and Mistress Manners rode 
after her. The men stood aside as the cavalcade began to 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


223 


go between the booths, and the most of them saluted Mis- 
tress Babington. But as they were almost out of the market 
they came abreast one of the inns from whose wide-open 
doors came a roar of voices from those that were drinking 
within, and a group that was gathered on the step stopped 
talking as the party came up. Marjorie glanced at them, 
and noticed there was an air about two or three of the men 
that was plainly town-bred; there was a certain difference 
in the cut of their clothes and the way they wore them. 
Then she saw two or three whispering together, and the 
next moment came a brutal shout. She could not catch 
the sentence, but she heard the word “ Papist ” with an 
adjective, and caught the unmistakable bullying tone of 
the man. The next instant there broke out a confusion: 
a man dashed up the step from the crowd beneath, and she 
caught a glimpse of Dick Sampson’s furious face. Then 
the group bore back, fighting, into the inn door; the Dethick 
servant leapt off his horse, leaving it in some fellow’s hands, 
and vanished up the step; there was a rush of the crowd 
after him, and then the way was clear in front, over the 
little bridge that spanned Bramble brook. 

When she drew level with Alice, she saw her friend’s 
face, pale and agitated. 

“ It is the first time I have ever been cried at,” she said. 
“ Come ; we are nearly home. There is St. Peter’s spire.” 

“Shall we not began Marjorie. 

“ No, no ” (and the pale face tightened suddenly). “ My 
fellows will give them a lesson. The crowd is on our side 
as yet.” 


IV 


As they rode in under the archway that led in beside the 
great doors of Babington House, three or four grooms ran 


224 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


forward at once. It was plain that their coming was looked 
for with some eagerness. 

Alice’s manner s'eemed curiously different from that of 
the quiet woman who had sat so patiently beside Marjorie 
in the manor among the hills: a certain air of authority 
and dignity sat on her now that she was back in her own 
place. 

“Is Mrs. FitzHerbert here?” she asked from the 
groom who helped her to the ground. 

“Yes, mistress; she came from the inn this morning, 

and ” 

“ Well? ” 

“ She is in a great taking, mistress. She would eat 
nothing, they said.” 

Alice nodded. 

“ You had best be off to the inn,” she said, with a jerk 
of her head. “ A London fellow insulted us just now, and 
Sampson and Mallow ” 

She said no more. The man who held her horse slipped 
the reins into the hands of the younger groom who stood by 
him, and was away and out of the court in an instant. 
Marjorie smiled a little, astonished at her own sense of 
exultation. The blows were not to be all one side, she 
perceived. Then she followed Alice into the house. 

As they came through into the hall by the side-door that 
led through from the court where they had dismounted, a 
figure was plainly visible in the dusky light, going to and 
fro at the further end, with a quick, nervous movement. 
The figure stopped as they advanced, and then darted for- 
ward, crying out piteously: 

“ Ah ! you have come, thank God ! thank God ! They 
will not let me see him.” 

“ Hush ! hush ! ” said Alice, as she caught her in her 


arms. 


COxME RACK! COME ROPE! 


225 


“ Mr. Bassett has been here/’ moaned the figure, “ and 
he says it is Topeliffe himself who has come down on the 
matter. . . . He says he is the greatest devil of them all; 
and Thomas ” 

Then she burst out crying again. 

It was an hour before they could get the full tale out of 
her. They took her upstairs and made her sit down, for 
already a couple of faces peeped from the buttery, and the 
servants would have gathered in another five minutes ; 
and together they forced her to eat and drink something, 
for she had not tasted food since her arrival at the inn 
yesterday; and so, little by little, they drew the story out. 

Mr. Thomas and his wife were actually on their way 
from Norbury when the arrest had been made. Mr. Thomas 
had intended to pass a couple of nights in Derby on various 
matters of the estates; and although, his wife said, he had 
been somewhat silent and quiet since the warning had come 
to him from Mr. Audrey, even he had thought it no danger 
to ride through Derby on his way to Padley. He had sent 
a servant ahead to order rooms at the inn for those two 
nights, and it was through that, it appeared, that the news 
of his coming had reached the ears of the authorities. How- 
ever that was, and whether the stroke had been actually 
determined upon long before, or had been suddenly de- 
cided upon at the news of his coming, it fell out that, as 
the husband and wife were actually within sight of Derby, 
on turning a corner they had found themselves surrounded 
by men on horses, plainly gathered there for the purpose, 
with a magistrate in the midst. Their names had been 
demanded, and, upon Mr. Thomas’ hesitation, they had 
been told that their names were well known, and a war- 
rant was produced, on a charge of recusancy and of aiding 
her Grace’s enemies, drawn out against Thomas FitzHer- 


226 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


bert, and he had been placed under arrest. Further, Mrs. 
FitzHerbert had been told she must not enter the town 
with the party, but must go either before them or after 
them, which she pleased. She had chosren to go first, and 
had been at the windows of the inn in time to see her hus- 
band go by. There had been no confusion, she said; the 
townsfolk appeared to know nothing of what was happen- 
ing until Mr. Thomas was safely lodged in the ward. 

Then she burst out crying again, lamenting the horrible 
state of the prison, as it had been des'cribed to her, and 
demanding to know where God’s justice was in allowing 
His faithful servants to be so tormented and harried. . . . 

Marjorie watched her closely. She had met her once at 
Babington House, when she was still Elizabeth Westley, 
but had thought little or nothing of her since. She was a 
pale little creature, fair-haired and timorous, and had now 
a hunted look of misery in her eyes that was very piteous 
to see. It was plain they had done right in coming: this 
woman would be of little service to her husband. 

Then when Alice had said a word or two, Marjorie began 
her questions. 

“ Tell me,” she said gently, “ had you no warning of 
this } ” 

The girl shook her head. 

“ Not beyond that which came from yourself,” she said; 
“ and we never thought ” 

“ Hath Mr. Thomas had any priests with him lately? ” 
We have not had one at Norbury for the last six 
months, whilst we were there, at least. My husband said 
it was better not, and that there was a plenty of places 
for them to go to.” 

“ And you have not heard mass during that time ? ” 

The girl looked at her with tear-stained eyes. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 227 

“ No_,” she said. “ But why do you ask that? My hus- 
band says ” 

“And when was the first you heard of Topcliffe? And 
what have you heard of him ? “ 

The other’s face fell into lines of misery. 

“ I have heard he is the greatest devil her Grace uses. 
He hath authority to question priests and others in his 
own house. He hath a rack there that he boasts makes all 
others as Christmas toys. My husband ” 

Marjorie patted her arm gently. 

“There! there!” she said kindly. “Your husband is 
not in Topcliffe’s house. There will be no question of that. 
He is here in his own county, and ” 

“ But that will not save him ! ” cried the girl. 
“ Why ” 

“ Tell me,” interrupted Marjorie, “ was Topcliffe with 
the men that took Mr. Thomas? ” 

The other shook her head. 

“ No; I heard he was not. He was come from London 
yesterday morning. That was the first I heard of him.” 

Then Alice began again to soothe her gently, to tell her 
that her husband was in no great danger as yet, that he 
was well known for his loyalty, and to do her best to answer 
the girl’s pitiful questions. And Marjorie sat back and 
considered. 

Marjorie had a remarkable knowledge of the methods of 
the Government, gathered from the almost endless stories 
she had heard from travelling priests and others; it was 
her business, too, to know them. Two or three things, 
therefore, if the girl’s account was correct, were plain. 
First, that this was a concerted plan, and not a mere chance 
arrest. Mr. Audrey’s message to her s'howed so much, and 
the circumstances of Topcliffe’s arrival confirmed it. Next, 
it must be more than a simple blow struck at one man, 


1 


228 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert: Topcliffe would not have come 
down from London at all unless it were a larger quarry 
than Mr. Thomas that was aimed at. Thirdly, and in con- 
clusion, it would not be easy therefore to get Mr. Thomas 
released again. There remained a number of questions 
which she had as yet no means of answering. Was it be- 
cause Mr. Thomas was heir to the enormous FitzHerbert 
estates in this county and elsewhere, that he was struck 
at.^ Or was it the beginning, merely, of a general assault 
on Derbyshire, such as had taken place before she was 
born? Or was it that Mr. Thomas’ apparent coolness 
towards the Faith (for that was evident by his not having 
heard mass for so long, and by his refusal to entertain 
priests just at present) — was it that lack of zeal on his 
part, which would, of course, be known to the army of in- 
formers scattered now throughout England, which had 
marked him out as the bird to be flown at? It would be, 
indeed, a blow to the Catholic gentry of the county, if any 
of the FitzHerberts should fall! 

She stood up presently, grave with her thoughts. Mis- 
tress Alice glanced up. 

“ I am going out for a little,” said Marjorie. 

But ” 

“ May two of your men follow me at a little distance ? 
But I shall be safe enough. I am going to a friend’s 
house.” 

Marjorie knew Derby well enough from the old days 
when she rode in sometimes with her father and slept at 
Mr. Biddell’s; and, above all, she knew all that Derby 
had once been. In one place, outside the town, was St. 
Mary-in-Pratis, where the Benedictine nuns had lived; St. 
Leonard’s had had a hospital for lepers; St. Helen’s had 
had the Augustinian hospital for poor brothers and sisters; 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 229 

St. Alkmund’s had held a relic of its patron saint; all this 
she knew by heart; and it was bitter now to be here on 
such business. But she went briskly out from the hall, 
and ten minutes later she was knocking at the door of a 
little attorney, the old partner of her father’s, whose house 
faced the Guildhall across the little market-square. It was 
opened by an old woman who smiled at the sight of her. 

“ Eh ! come in, mistress. The master saw you ride into 
town. He is in the upstairs parlour, with Mr. Bassett.” 

The girl nodded to her bodyguard, and followed the old 
woman in. She bowed as she passed the lawyer’s confi- 
dential clerk and servant, Mr. George Beaton,^ in the pas- 
sage — a big man, with whom she had had communications 
more than once on Popish affairs. 

Mr. John Biddell, like Marjorie’s own father and his 
partner, was one of those quiet folks who live through 
storms without attracting attention from the elements, yet 
without the sacrifice of principle. He was a Catholic, and 
never pretended to be anything else; but he was so little 
and so harmless that no man ever troubled him. He pleaded 
before the magistrates unobtrusively and deftly ; and would 
have appeared before her Grace herself or the Lord of Plell 
with the same timid and respectful air, in his iron-rimmed 
spectacles, his speckless dark suit, and his little black cap 
drawn down to his ears. He had communicated with Mar- 
jorie again and again in the last two or three years on the 
subject of wandering priests, calling them “ gentlemen,” 
with the greatest care, and allowing no indiscreet word ever 
to appear in his letters. He remembered King Harry, whom 
he had seen once in a visit of his to London; he had as- 
sisted the legal authorities considerably in the restoration 
under Queen Mary; and he had soundlessly acquiesced in 
the changes again under Elizabeth — so far, at least, as 
mere law was concerned. 


230 


COME RACK ! COME ROPE ! 


Mr. William Basrsett was a very different man. First he 
was the brother-in-law of Sir Thomas FitzHerbert himself; 
and was entirely of the proper spirit to mate with that 
fearless family. He had considerable estates, both at 
Langley and Blore, in both of which places he cheerfully 
evaded the new laws, maintaining and helping priests in 
all directions; a man, in fact, of an ardent and boisterous 
faith which he extended (s'o the report ran) even to magic 
and astrology ; a man of means, too, in spite of his frequent 
fines for recusancy, and aged about fifty years old at this 
time, with a high colour in his face and bright, merry 
eyes. Marjorie had spoken with him once or twice only. 

These two men, then, first turned round in their chairs, 
and then stood up to salute Marjorie, as she came into the 
upstairs parlour. It was a somewhat dark room, panelled 
where there was space for it between the books, and with 
two windows looking out on to the square. 

“ I thought we should see you soon,” said the attorney. 
“ We saw you come, mistress ; and the fellows that cried 
out on you.” 

” They had their deserts,” said Marjorie, smiling. 

Mr. Bassett laughed aloud. 

” Indeed they did,” he said in his deep, pleasant voice. 
“ There were two of them with bloody noses before all 
was done. ... You have come for the news, I suppose, 
mistress ? ” 

He eyed her genially and approvingly. He had heard a 
great deal of this young lady in the last three or four years ; 
and wished there were more of her kind. 

“ That is what I have come for,” said Marjorie. ** We 
have Mrs. Thomas over at Babington House.” 

“ Shell be of no great service to her husband,” said the 
other. “ She cries and laments too much. Now ” 

He stopped himself from paying his compliments. It 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


231 


seemed to him that this woman, with her fearless, resolute 
face, would do very well without them. 

Then he set himself to relate the tale. 

It seemed that little Mrs. Thomas had given a true 
enough report. It was true that Topcliffe had arrived 
from London on the morning of the arrest; and Mistress 
Manners was perfectly right in her opinion that this signi- 
fied a good deal. But, it seemed to Mr. Bassett, the Council 
had made a great mistake in striking at the FitzHerberts. 
The quarry was too strong, he said, for such birds as the 
Government used — too strong and too many. For, first, no 
FitzHerbert had ever yet yielded in his allegiance either to 
the Church or to the Queen’s Grace; and it was not likely 
that Mr. Thomas would begin: and, next, if one yielded 
{suadente diabolo, and Deus avertat!) a dozen more would 
spring up. But the position was serious for all that, said 
Mr. Bassett (and Mr. Biddell nodded assent), for who 
would deal with the estates and make suitable arrangements 
if the heir, who already largely controlled them, were laid 
by the heels But that the largeness of the undertaking 
was recognised by the Council, was plain enough, in that 
no less a man than Topcliffe (Mr. Bassett spat on the 
floor as he named him), Topcliffe, “ the devil possessed by 
worse devils,” was sent down to take charge of the matter. 

Marjorie listened carefully. 

“ You have no fear for yourself, sir? ” she asked pres- 
ently, as the man sat back in his chair. 

Mr. Bassett smiled broadly, showing his strong white 
teeth between the iron-grey hair that fringed his lips. 

“No; I have no fear,” he said. “ I have a score of my 
men quartered in the town.” 

“ And the trial? When will that ” 

“ The trial ! Why, I shall praise God if the trial falls 
this year. They will harry him before magistrates, no 


232 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


doubt; and they will squeeze him in private. But the 
trial! . . . Why, they have not a word of treason against 
him; and that is what they are after, no doubt.” 

“ Treason ? ” 

Why, srurely. That is what they seek to fasten upon 
us all. It would not sound well that Christian should shed 
Christian’s blood for Christianity; but that her Grace should 
sorrowfully arraign her subjects whom she loves and 

cossets so much, for treason Why, that is as sound a 

cause as any in the law-books ! ” 

He smiled in a manner that was almost a snarl, and his 
eyes grew narrow with ironic merriment. 

“And Mr. Thomas ” began Marjorie hesitatingly. 

He whisked his glance on her like lightning. 

“ Mr. Thomas will laugh at them all,” he cried. “ He 
is as staunch as any of his blood. I know he has been 
careful of late; but, then, you must remember how all the 
estates hang on him. But when he has his back to the 
wall — or on the rack for that matter — he will be as stiff as 
iron. They will have their work to bend him by a hair’s 
breadth.” 

Marjorie drew a breath of relief. She did not question 
Mr. Bassett’s judgment. But she had had an uneasy dis- 
comfort in her heart till he had spoken so plainly. 

“ Well, sir,” she said, “ that is what I chiefly came for. 
I wished to know if I could do aught for Mr. Thomas or his 
wife; and ” 

“ You can do a great deal for his wife,” said he. “ You 
can keep her quiet and comfort her. She needs it, poor 
soul! I have told her for her comfort that we shall have 
Thomas out again in a month — God forgive me for the 
lie!” 

Marjorie stood up; and the men rose with her. 

“Why, what is that.^ ” she said; and went swiftly to 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


233 


the window; for the noise of the crying of the cheeses and 
the murmur of voices had ceased all on a sudden. 

Straight opposite the window where she stood was the 
tiled flight of stairs that ran up from the market-place to 
the first floor of the Guildhall, a great building where the 
business of the town was largely done, and where the mag- 
istrates sat when there was need; and a lane that was clear 
of booths and carts had been left leading from that door 
straight across the square, so that she could see the two 
little brobonets — or iron guns — that guarded the door on 
either side. It was up this lane that she looked, and down 
it that there advanced a little procession, the very sight 
of which, it seemed, had stricken the square to silence. 
Already the crowd was dividing from end to end, ranging 
itself on either side — farmers’ men shambled out of the 
way and turned to see ; women clambered on the carts hold- 
ing up their children to see, and from across the square 
came country-folk running, that they too might see. The 
steps of the Cross were already crowded with sight- 
seers. 

Yet, to outward sight, the little procession was ordinary 
enough. First came three or four of the town-guard in 
livery, carrying their staves; then half a dozen sturdy 
fellows; then a couple of dignified gentlemen — one of them 
she knew: Mr. Roger Columbell, magistrate of the town — 
and then, walking all alone, the figure of a man, tall and 
thin, a little rustily, but very cleanly dressed in a dark 
suit, who carried his head stooping forward as if he were 
looking on the ground for something, or as if he deprecated 
so much notice. 

Marjorie saw no more than this clearly. She did not 
notice the group of men that followed in case protection 
were needed for the agent of the Council, nor the crowd 
that swirled behind. For, as the solitary figure came be- 


234 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


neath the windows she recognised the man whom she had 
seen once in the Tower of London. 

“ God smite the man ! ” growled a voice in her ear. 

That is Topcliffe_, going to the prison, I daresay.” 

And as Marjorie turned her pale face back, she saw the 
face of kindly Mr. Bassett, suffused and convulsed with 
fury. 


CHAPTER IX 


I 

“Marjorie! Marjorie! Wake up! the order hath come. 
It is for to-night.” 

Very slowly Marjorie rose out of the glimmering depths 
of sleep into which she had fallen on the hot August after- 
noon, sunk down upon the arm of the great chair that stood 
by the parlour window, and saw Mrs. Thomas radiant be- 
fore her, waving a scrap of paper in her hand. 

Nearly two months were passed; and as yet no oppor- 
tunity had been given to the prisoner’s wife to visit him, 
and during that time it had been impossible to go back 
into the hills and leave the girl alone. The heat of the 
summer had been stifling, down here in the valley; a huge 
plague of grasshoppers had ravaged all England ; and 
there were times when even in the grass-country outside 
Derby, their chirping had become intolerable. The heat, 
and the necessary seclusion, and the anxiety had told 
cruelly upon the country girl; Marjorie’s face had percepti- 
bly thinned; her eyes had shadows above and beneath; 
yet she knew she must not go; since the young wife had 
attached herself to her altogether, finding Alice (she said) 
too dull for her spirits. Mr. Bassett was gone again. 
There was no word of a trial; although there had been a 
hearing or two before the magistrates; and it was known 
that Topcliffe continually visited the prison. 

One piece of news only had there been to comfort her 
during this time, and that, that Mr. John’s prediction had 
been fulfilled with regard to the captured priest, Mr. 
Garlick, who, back from Rheims only a few months, had 

235 


236 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


been deported from England^ since it was his first offence. 
But he would soon be over again^ no doubt, and next time 
with death as the stake in the game. 

Marjorie drew a long breath, and passed her hands over 
her forehead. 

“ The order ” she said. “ What order ? ’’ 

The girl explained, torrentially. A man had come just 
now from the Guildhall; he had asked for Mrs. FitzHer- 
bert; she had gone down into the hall to see him; and all 
the rest of the useless details. But the effect was that 
leave had been given at last to visit the prisoner — for two 
persons, of which Mrs. FitzHerbert must be one; and that 
they must present the order to the gaoler before seven 
o’clock, when they would be admitted. She looked — such 
was the constitution of her mind — as happy as if it were an 
order for his release. Marjorie drove away the last shreds 
of sleep; and kissed her. 

“ That is very good news,” she said. “ Now we will 
begin to do something.” 

The sun had sunk so far, when they set out at last, as to 
throw the whole of the square into golden shade; and, in 
the narrow, overhung Friar’s Gate, where the windows of 
the upper stories were so near that a man might shake 
hands with his friend on the other side, the twilight had 
already begun. They had determined to walk, in order less 
to attract attention, in spite of the filth through which they 
knew they must pass, along the couple of hundred yards 
that separated them from the prison. For every house- 
wife emptied her slops out of doors, and swept her house 
(when she did so at all) into the same place : now and again 
the heaps would be pushed together and removed, but for 
the most part they lay there, bones and rags and rotten 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


237 


fruit, — dusty in one spot, so that all blew about — dampened 
in others where a pail or two had been poured forth. The 
heat, too, was stifling, cast out again towards evening from 
the roofs and walls that had drunk it in all day from the 
burning skies. 

As they stood before the door at last and waited, after 
beating the great iron knocker on the iron plate, a kind of 
despair came down on Marjorie. They had advanced just 
so far in two months as to be allowed to speak with the 
prisoner; and, from her talkings with Mr. Biddell, had 
understood how little that was. Indeed, he had hinted to 
her plainly enough that even in this it might be that they 
were no more than pawns in the enemy’s hand; and that, 
under a show of mercy, it was often allowed for a prison- 
er’s friends to have free access to him in order to shake his 
resolution. If there was any cause for congratulation then, 
it lay solely in the thought that other means had so far 
failed. One thing at least they knew, for their comfort, 
that there had been no talk of torture. . . . 

It was a full couple of minutes before the door opened 
to show them a thin, brown-faced man, with his sleeves 
rolled up, dressed over his shirt and hose in a kind of 
leathern apron. He nodded as he saw the ladies, with an 
air of respect, however, and stood aside to let them come 
in. Then, with the same civility, he asked for the order, 
and read it, holding it up to the light that came through 
the little barred window over the door. 

It was an unspeakably dreary little entrance passage 
in which they stood, wainscoted solidly from floor to ceiling 
with wood that looked damp and black from age; the ceil- 
ing itself was indistinguishable in the twilight; the floor 
seemed composed of packed earth, three or four doors 
showed in the woodwork; that opposite to the one by 
which they had entered stood slightly ajar, and a smoky 


238 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


light shone from beyond it. The air was heavy and hot 
and damp^ and smelled of mildew. 

The man gave the order back when he had read it, made 
a little gesture that resembled a bow, and led the way 
straight forward. 

They found themselves, when they had pasfsed through 
the half-open door, in another passage running at right- 
angles to the entrance, with windows, heavily barred, so 
as to exclude all but the faintest twilight, even though 
the sun was not yet set; there appeared to be foliage of 
some kind, too, pressing against them from outside, as if 
a little central yard lay there ; and the light, by which alone 
they could s'ee their way along the uneven earth floor, came 
from a flambeau which hung by the door, evidently put 
there just now by the man who had opened to them; he 
led them down this passage to the left, down a couple of 
steps ; unlocked another door of enormous weight and 
thickness and closed this behind them. They found them- 
selves in complete darknes's. 

“ I’ll be with you in a moment, mistress,” said his voice; 
and they heard his steps go on into the dark and 
cease. 

Marjorie stood passive; she could feel the girl’s hands 
clasp her arm, and could hear her breath come like sobs. 
But before she could speak, a light shone somewhere on 
the roof ; and almost immediately the man came back 
carrying another flambeau. He called to them civilly ; they 
followed. Marjorie once trod on some soft, damp thing 
that crackled beneath her foot. They groped round one 
more corner; waited, while they heard a key turning in a 
lock. Then the man stood aside, and they went past into 
the room. A figure w^as standing there; but for the first 
moment they could see no more. Great shadows fled this 
way and that as the gaoler hung up the flambeau. Then 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 239 

the door closed again behind them; and Elizabeth flung 
herself into her husband’s arms. 


II 

When Marjorie could see him^ as at last he put his wife 
into the single chair that stood in the cell and gave her the 
stool, himself sitting upon the table, she was shocked by 
the change in his face. It was true that she had only the 
wavering light of the flambeau to see him by (for the single 
barred window was no more than a pale glimmer on the 
wall), yet even that shadowy illumination could not account 
for his paleness and his fallen face. He was dressed 
miserably, too; his clothes were disordered and rusty-look- 
ing; and his features looked out, at once pinched and 
elongated. He blinked a little from time to time; his lips 
twitched beneath his ill-cut moustache and beard; and little 
spasms passed, as he talked, across his whole face. It was 
pitiful to see him; and yet more pitiful to hear him talk; 
for he assumed a kind of courtesy, mixed with bitterness. 
Now and again he fell silent, glancing with a swift and 
furtive movement of his eyes from one to the other of his 
visitors and back again. He attempted to apologise for the 
miserableness of the surroundings in which he received 
them — saying that her Grace his hostess could not be 
everywhere at once; and that her guests must do the best 
that they could. And all this was mixed with sudden wails 
from his wife, sudden graspings of his hands by hers. It 
all seemed to the quiet girl, who sat ill-at-ease on the little 
three-legged stool, that this was not the way to meet ad- 
versity. Then she drove down her criticism; and told her- 
self that she ought rather to admire one of Christ’s con- 
fessors. 

“ And you bring me no hope, then. Mistress Manners.^ ” 


240 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


he said presently (for she had told him that there was no 
talk yet of any formal trial) — “ no hope that I may meet 
my accusers face to face? I had thought perhaps ” 

He lifted his eyes swiftly to hers, and dropped them 
again. 

She shook her head. 

“ And yet that is all that I ask now — only to meet my 
accusers. They can prove nothing against me — except, in- 
deed, my recusancy; and that they have known this long 
time back. They can prove nothing as to the harbouring 
of any priests — not within the last year, at any rate, for I 
have not done so. It seemed to me 

He stopped again, and passed his shaking hand over his 
mouth, eyeing the two women with momentary glances, and 
then looking down once more. 

“Yes?” said Marjorie. 

He slipped off from the table, and began to move about 
restlessly. 

“ I have done nothing — nothing at all,” he said. “ In- 
deed, I thought ” And once more he was silent. 

He began to talk presently of the Derbyshire hills — of 
Padley and of Norbury. He asked his wife of news from 
home, and she gave it him, interrupting herself with la- 
ments. Yet all the while his eyes strayed to Marjorie as 
if there was something he would ask of her, but could not. 
He seemed completely unnerved, and for the first time in 
her life the girl began to understand something of what 
gaol-life must signify. She had heard of death and the - 
painful Question; and she had perceived something of the 
heroism that was needed to meet them; yet she had never 
before imagined what that life of confinement might be, 
until she had watched this man, whom she had known in 
the world as a curt and almost masterful gentleman, care- 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


241 


ful of his dress^ particular of the deference that was due 
to him, now become this worn prisoner, careless of his ap- 
pearance, who stroked his mouth continually, once or twice 
gnawing his nails, who paced about in this abominable hole, 
where a tumbled heap of straw and blankets represented 
a bed, and a rickety table with a chair and a stool his sole 
furniture. It seemed as if a husk had been stripped from 
him, and a shrinking creature had come out of it which at 
present she could not recognise. 

Then he suddenly wheeled on her, and for the first time 
some kind of forcefulness appeared in his manner. 

“And my Uncle Bassett.^” he cried abruptly. “What 
is he doing all this while ? ” 

Marjorie said that Mr. Bassett had been most active on 
his behalf with the lawyers, but, for the present, was gone 
back again to his estates. Mr. Thomas snorted impatiently. 

“ Yes, he is gone back again,” he cried, “ and he leaves 
me to rot here! He thinks that I can bear it for ever, it 
seems ! ” 

“ Mr. Bassett has done his utmost, sir,” said Marjorie. 
“ He exposed himself here daily.” 

“ Yes, with twenty fellows to guard him, I suppose. I 
know my Uncle Bassett’s ways. . . . Tell me, if you please, 
how matters stand.” 

Marjorie explained again. There was nothing in the 
world to be done until the order came for his trial — or, 
rather, everything had been done already. His lawyers 
were to rely exactly on the defence that had been spoken 
of just now; it was to be shown that the prisoner had har- 
boured no priests; and the witnesses had already been 
spoken with — men from Norbury and Padley, who would 
swear that to their certain knowledge no priest had been 
received by Mr. FitzHerbert at least during the previous 
year or eighteen months. There was, therefore, no kind 


242 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


of reason why Mr. Bassett or Mr. John FitzHerbert should 
remain any longer in Derby. Mr. John had been there^ but 
had gone again, under advice from the lawyers ; but he was 
in constant coihmunication with Mr. Biddell, who had all 
the papers ready and the names of the witnesses, and had 
made more than one application already for the trial to 
come on. 

“ And why has neither my father nor my Uncle Bassett 
come to see me ? ” snapped the man. 

“ They have tried again and again, sir,” said Marjorie. 

But permission was refused. They will no doubt try 
again, now that Mrs. FitzHerbert has been admitted.” 

He paced up and down again for a few steps without 
speaking. Then again he turned on her, and she could see 
his face working uncontrolledly. 

“And they will enjoy the estates, they think, while I 
rot here ! ” 

“Oh, my Thomas!” moaned his wife, reaching out to 
him. But he paid no attention to her. 

“ While I rot here ! ” he cried again. “ But I will not ! I 
tell you I will not ! ” 

“Yes, sir.^” said Marjorie gently, suddenly aware that 
her heart had begun to beat swiftly. 

He glanced at her, and his face changed a little. 

“ I will not,” he murmured. “ I must break out of my 
prison. Only their accursed ” 

Again he interrupted himself, biting sharply on his lip. 

For an instant the girl had thought that all her old dis- 
trust of him was justified, and that he contemplated in 
some way the making of terms that would be disgraceful 
to a Catholic. But what terms could these be? He was a 
FitzHerbert; there was no evading his own blood; and 
he was the victim chosen by the Council to answer for the 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


24>3 


rest. Nothing, then, except the denial of his faith — a for- 
mal and deliberate apostasy — could serve him ; and to think 
that of the nephew of old Sir Thomas, and the son of 
John, was inconceivable. There seemed no way out; the 
torment of this prison must be borne. She only wished 
he could have borne it more manfully. 

It seemed, as she watched him, that some other train of 
thought had fastened upon him. His wife had begun again 
her lamentations, bewailing his cell and his clothes, and 
his loss of liberty, asking him whether he were not ill, 
whether he had food enough to eat; and he hardly an- 
swered her or glanced at her, except once when he remem- 
bered to tell her that a good gift to the gaoler would mean 
a little better food, and perhaps more light for himself. 
And then he resumed his pacing; and, three or four times 
as he turned, the girl caught his eyes fixed on hers for 
one instant. She wondered what was in his mind to 
say. 

Even as she wondered there came a single loud rap upon 
the door, and then she heard the key turning. He wheeled 
round, and seemed to come to a determination. 

“ My dearest,” he said to his wife, “ here is the gaoler 

come to turn you out again. I will ask him ” He 

broke off as the man stepped in. 

“ Mr. Gaoler,” he said, “ my wife would speak alone 
with you a moment.” (He nodded and winked at his wife, 
as if to tell her that this was the time to give him the 
money.) 

“ Will you leave Mistress Manners here for a minute or 
two while my wife speaks with you in the passage ? ” 

Then Marjorie understood that she had been right. 

The man who held the keys nodded without speak- 
ing. 

“ Then, my dearest wife,” said Thomas, embracing her 


244 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


all of a sudden^ and simultaneously drawing her towards 
the door, “ we will leave you to speak with the man. He 
will come back for Mistress Manners directly.'* 

“ Oh ! my Thomas ! " wailed the girl, clinging to him. 

“ There, there, my dearest. And you will come and see 
me again as soon as you can get the order.” 

The instant the door was closed he came up to Marjorie 
and his face looked ghastly. 

” Mistress Manners,” he said, ** I dare not speak to my 
wife. But . . . but, for Jesu’s sake, get me out of here. 
I ... I cannot bear it. . . . Topcliffe comes to see me 
every day. . . . He ... he speaks to me continually 
of o Christ ! Christ ! I cannot bear it ! ” 

He dropped suddenly on to his knees by the table and 
hid his face. 

Ill 

At Babington House Marjorie slept, as was often the 
custom, in the same room with her maid — a large, low room, 
hung all round with painted cloths above the low wains- 
coting. 

On the night after the visit to the prison, Janet noticed 
that her mistress was restless; and that while she would 
say nothing of what was troubling her, and only bade her 
go to bed and to sleep, she herself would not go to bed. 
At last, in sheer weariness, the maid slept. 

She awakened later, at what time she did not know, and, 
in her uneasiness, sat up and looked about her; and there, 
still before the crucifix, where she had seen her before she 
slept, kneeled her mistress. She cried out in a loud 
whisper : 

** Come to bed, mistress ; come to bed.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


245 


And, at the word, Marjorie started; then she rose, turned, 
and in the twilight of the summer night began to prepare 
herself for bed, without speaking. Far away across the 
roofs of Derby came the crowing of a cock to greet the 
dawn. 


CHAPTER X 


I 

It was a fortnight later that there came sruddenly to Bab- 
ington House old Mr. Biddell himself. Up to the present 
he had been careful not to do so. He appeared in the 
great hall an hour before dinner-time, as the tables were 
being set, and sent a servant for Mistress Manners. 

“Hark you!” he said; “you need not rouse the whole 
house. It is with Mistress Manners alone that my busi- 
ness lies.” 

He broke off, as Mrs. FitzHerbert looked over the gal- 
lery. 

“ Mr. Biddell ! ” she cried. 

He shook his head, but he seemed to speak with some 
difficulty. 

“ It is just a rumour,” he said, “ such as there hath been 
before. I beg you ” 

“ That . . . there will be no trial at all? ” 

“ It is just a rumour,” he repeated. “ I did not even 
come to trouble you with it. It is with Mistress Manners 
that ” 

“ I am coming down,” cried Mrs. Thomas, and van- 
ished from the gallery. 

Mr. Biddell acted with decision. He whisked out again 
into the passage from the court, and there ran straight 
into Marjorie, who was coming in from the little enclosed 
garden at the back of the house. 

“Quick!” he said. “Quick! Mrs. Thomas is coming, 
and I do not wish ” 

She led the way without a word back into the court, 
246 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 




along a few steps, and up again to the house into a little 
back parlour that the steward used when the house was 
full. It was unoccupied now, and looked out into the 
garden whence she was just come. She locked the door 
when he had entered, and came and sat down out of sight 
of any that might be passing. 

“Sit here,” she said; and then: “Well.^” she asked. 

He looked at her gravely and sadly, shaking his head 
once or twice. Then he drew out a paper or two from a 
little lawyer’s valise that he carried, and, as he did so, heard 
a hand try the door outside. 

“ That is Mrs. Thomas,” whispered the girl. “ She will 
not find us.” 

He waited till the steps moved away again. Then he 
began. He looked anxious and dejected. 

“ I fear it is precisely as you thought,” he said. “ I 
have followed up every rumour in the place. And the first 
thing that is certain is that Topcliffe leaves Derby in two 
days from now. I had it as positive information that his 
men have orders to prepare for it. The second thing is 
that Topcliffe is greatly elated; and the third is that Mr. 
FitzHerbert will be released as soon as Topcliffe is gone.” 

“ You are sure this time, sir? ” 

He assented by a movement of his head. 

“ I dared not tell Mrs. Thomas just now. She would 
give me no peace. I said it was but a rumour, and so it 
is; but it is a rumour that hath truth behind it. He hath 
been moved, too, these three days back, to another cell, 
and hath every comfort.” 

He shook his head again. 

“ But he hath made no promise ” began Marjorie 

breathlessly. 

“ It is exactly that which I am most afraid of,” said 
the lawyer. “If he had yielded, and consented to go to 


248 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


church, it would have been in every man’s mouth by now. 
But he hath not, and I should fear it less if he had. 
That’s the very worst part of my news.” 

“I do not understand ” 

Mr. Biddell tapped his papers on the table. 

“ If he were an open and confessed enemy, I should fear 
it less,” he repeated. “ It is not that. But he must have 
given some promise to Topcliffe that pleases the fellow 
more. And what can that be but that ” 

Marjorie turned yet whiter. She sighed once as if to 
steady herself. She could not speak, but she nodded. 

Yes, Mistress Manners,” said the old man. “ I make 
no doubt at all that he hath promised to assist him against 
them all — against Mr. John his father, it may be, or Mr. 
Bassett, or God knows whom ! And yet still feigning to be 
true ! And that is not all.” 

She looked at him. She could not conceive worse than 
this, if indeed it were true. 

** And do you think,” he continued, “ that Mr. Topcliffe 
will do all this for love, or rather, for mere malice? I have 
heard more of the fellow since he hath been in Derby than 
in all my life before; and, I tell you, he is for feathering 
his own nest if he can.” He stopped. 

“ Mistress, did you know that he had been out to Padley 
three or four times since he came to Derby? . . . Well, 
I tell you now that he has. Mr. John was away, praise 
God; but the fellow went all round the place and greatly 
admired it.” 

** He went out to see what he could find ? ” asked the 
girl, still whispering. 

The other shook his head. 

“No, mistress; he searched nothing. I had it all from 
one of his fellows through one of mine. He searched 
nothing; he sat a great while in the garden, and ate some 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


249 


of the fruit; he went through the hall and the rooms, and 
admired all that was to be seen there. He went up into 
the chapel-room, too, though there was nothing there to 
tell him what it was; and he talked a great while to one 
of the men about the farms, and the grazing, and such- 
like, but he meddled with nothing.” (The old man’s face 
suddenly wrinkled into fury.) “ The devil went through 
it all like that, and admired it; and he came out to it again 
two or three times and did the like.” 

He stopped to examine the notes he had made, and 
Marjorie sat still, staring on him. 

It was worse than anything she could have conceived 
possible. That a Fitz Herbert should apostatise was incred- 
ible enough; but that one should sell his family It 

was impossible. 

“ Mr. Biddell,” she whispered piteously, “ it cannot be. 
It is some ” 

He shook his head suddenly and fiercely. 

“ Mistress Manners, it is as plain as daylight to me. Do 
you think I could believe it without proof I tell you I 
have lain awake all last night, fitting matters one into the 
other. I did not hear about Padley till last night, and it 
gave me all that I needed. I tell you Topcliffe hath cast 
his foul eyes on Padley and coveted it; and he hath de- 
manded it as a price for Mr. Thomas’ liberty. I do not 
know what else he hath promised, but I will stake my 
fortune that Padley is part of it. That is why he is so 
elated. "De hath been here nearly this three months back; 
he hath visited Mr. FitzHerbert nigh every day; he hath 
cajoled him, he hath threatened him; he hath worn out 
his spirit by the gaol and the stinking food and the lone- 
liness; and he hath prevailed, as he hath prevailed with 
many another. And the end of it all is that Mr. FitzHer- 
bert hath yielded — yet not openly. Maybe that is part of 


250 COME RACK! COME ROPE! 

the bargain upon the other side, that he should keep his 
nameibfefore the world. And on this side he hath promised 
Padley, if that he may but keep the rest of the estates, 
and have his liberty. I tell you that alone cuts all the 
knots of this tangle. . . . Can you cut them in any other 
manner } ” 

There was a long silence. From the direction of the 
kitchen came the sound of cheerful voices, and the clatter 
of lids, and from the walled garden outside the chatter of 
birds. . . . 

At last the girl spoke. 

“ I cannot believe it without evidence,” she said. It 
may be so. God knows! But I do not. . . . Mr. Biddell.^ ” 

“ Well, mistress.^ ” 

The lawyer’s head was sunk on his breast; he spoke 
listlessly. 

“ He will have given some writing to Mr. Topcliffe, 
will he not? if this be true. Mr. Topcliffe is not the 
man ” 

The old man lifted his head sharply; then he nodded. 

“ That is the shrewd truth, mistress. Mr. Topcliffe 
will not trust to another’s honour; he hath none of his 
own ! ” 

“Well,” said Marjorie, “if all this be true, Mr. Top- 
cliffe will already have that writing in his possession.” 

She paused. 

“Eh?” said the lawyer. 

They looked at one another again in silence. It would 
have seemed to another that the two minds talked swiftly 
and wordlessly together, the trained thought of the lawyer 
and the quick wit of the woman; for when the man spoke 
again, it was as if they had spoken at length. 

“ But we must not destroy the paper,” he said, “ or the 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


251 

fat will be in the fire. We must not let Mr. FitzHerbert 
know that he is found out.” 

“ No,” said the girl. “ But to get a view of it. . . . And 
a copy of it, to send to his family.” 

Again the two looked each at the other in silence — as 
if they were equals — the old man and the girl. 

II 

It was the last night before the Londoners were to re- 
turn. 

They had lived royally these last three months. The 
agent of the Council had had a couple of the best rooms 
in the inn that looked on to the market-square, where he 
entertained his friends, and now and then a magistrate or 
two. Even Mr. Audrey, of Matstead, had come to him 
once there, with another, but had refused to stay to supper, 
and had ridden away again alone. 

Downstairs, too, his men had fared very well indeed. 
They knew how to make themselves respected, for they 
carried arms always now, since the unfortunate affair a day 
after the arrival, when two of them had been gravely 
battered about by two rustic servants, who, they learned, 
were members of a Popish household in the town. But all 
the provincial fellows were not like this. There was a big 
man, half clerk and half man-servant to a poor little lawyer, 
who lived across the square — a man of no wit indeed, but, 
at any rate, one of means and of generosity, too, as they 
had lately found out — means and generosity, they under- 
stood, that were made possible by the unknowing assistance 
of his master. In a word it was believed among Mr. Top- 
cliffe’s men that all the refreshment which they had lately 
enjoyed, beyond that provided by their master, was at 
old Mr. Biddell’s expense, though he did not know it, and 


252 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


that George Beaton, fool though he was, was a cleverer 
man than his employer. Lately, too, they had come to 
learn, that although George Beaton was half clerk, half 
man-servant, to a Papist, he was yet at heart as stout a 
Protestant as themselves, though he dared not declare it 
for fear of losing his place. 

On this last night they made very merry indeed, and 
once or twice the landlord pushed his head through the 
doorway. The baggage was packed, and all was in readi- 
ness for a start soon after dawn. 

There came a time when George Beaton said that he 
was stifling with the heat; and, indeed, in this low-ceilinged 
room after supper, with the little windows looking on to 
the court, the heat was surprising. The men sat in their 
shirts and trunks. So that it was as natural as possible 
that George should rise from his place and sit down again 
close to the door where the cool air from the passage came 
in; and from there, once more, he led the talk, in his char- 
acter of rustic and open-handed boor; he even beat the 
sullen man who was next him genially over the head to 
make him give more room, and then he proposed a toast 
to Mr. Topcliffe. 

It was about half an hour later, when George was be- 
coming a little anxious, that he drew out at last a statement 
that Mr. Topcliffe had a great valise upstairs, full of papers 
that had to do with his law business. (He had tried for 
this piece of information last night and the night before, 
but had failed to obtain it.) Ten minutes later again, 
then, when the talk had moved to affairs of the journey, 
and the valise had been forgotten, it was an entirely un- 
suspicious circumstance that George and the man that sat 
next him should slip out to take the air in the stable-court. 
The Londoner was so fuddled with drink as to think that 
he had gone out at his own deliberate wish; and there, in 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


253 


the fresh air, the inevitable result followed ; his head swam, 
and he leaned on big George for support. And here, by 
the one stroke of luck that visited poor George this even- 
ing, it fell that he was just in time to see Mr. Topcliffe 
himself pass the archway in the direction of Friar’s Gate, 
in company with a magistrate, who had supped with him 
upstairs. 

Up to this point George had moved blindly, step by step. 
He had had his instructions from his master, yet all that 
he had been able to determine was the general plan to find 
out where the papers were kept, to remain in the inn till 
the last possible moment, and to watch for any chance that 
might open to him. Truly, he had no more than that, 
except, indeed, a vague idea that it might be necessary to 
bribe one of the men to rob his master. Yet there was 
everything against this, and it was, indeed, a last resort. 
It seemed now, however, that another way was open. It 
was exceedingly probable that Mr. Topcliffe was off for 
his last visit to the prisoner, and, since a magistrate was 
with him, it was exceedingly improbable that he would take 
the paper with him. It was not the kind of paper — if, in- 
deed, it existed at all — that more persons would be allowed 
to see than were parties to the very discreditable affair. 

And now George spoke earnestly and convincingly. He 
desired to see the baggage of so great a man as Mr. Top- 
cliffe; he had heard so much of him. His friend was a 
good fellow who trusted him (here George embraced him 
warmly). Surely such a little thing would be allowed as 
for him, George, to step in and view Mr. Topcliffe’s bag- 
gage, while the faithful servant kept watch in the passage ! 
Perhaps another glass of ale 


254 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Ill 

** Yes, sir/’ said George an hour later, still a little flushed 
with the amount of drink he had been forced to consume. 
“ I had some trouble to get it. But I think this is what 
your honour wanted.” 

He began to search in his deep breast-pocket. 

” Tell me,” said Mr. Biddell. 

” I got the fellow to watch in the passage, sir; him that 
I had made drunk, while I was inside. There were great 
bundles of papers in the valise. . . . No, sir, it was 
strapped up only. . . . The most of the papers were 
docketed very legally, sir ; so I did not have to search long. 
There were three or four papers in a little packet by them- 
selves; besides a great packet that was endorsed with Mr. 
FitzHerbert’s name, as well as Mr. Topcliffe’s and my 
lord Shrewsbury’s; and I think I should not have had time 
to look that through. But, by God’s mercy, it was one of 
the three or four by themselves.” 

He had the paper in his hand by now. The lawyer 
made a movement to take it. Then he restrained himself. 

Tell me, first,” he said. 

** Well, sir,” said George, with a pardonable satisfaction 
in spinning the matter out, “ one was all covered with 
notes, and was headed ‘ Padley.’ I read that through, sir. 
It had to do with the buildings and the acres, and so 
forth. The second paper I could make nothing out of; 
it was in cypher, I think. The third paper was the same; 
and the fourth, sir, was that which I have here.” 

The lawyer started. 

“ But I told you ” 

** Yes, sir; I should have said that this is the copy — or, 
at least, an abstract. I made the abstract by the window, 
sir, crouching down so that none should see me. Then I 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


255 


put all back as before, and came out again; the fellow was 
fast asleep against the door/* 

“ And Topcliffe ’* 

“ Mr. Topcliffe, sir, returned half an hour afterwards in 
company again with Mr. Hamilton. I waited a few 
minutes to see that all was well, and then I came to you, 
sir.** 

There was silence in the little room for a moment. It 
was the small back office of Mr. Riddell, where he did his 
more intimate business, looking out on to a paved court. 
The town was for the most part asleep, and hardly a sound 
came through the closed windows. 

Then the lawyer turned and put out his hand for the 
paper without a word. He nodded to George, who went 
out, bidding him good-night. 

Ten minutes later Mr. Riddell walked quietly through 
the passengers* gate by the side of the great doors that led 
to the court beside Rabington House, closing it behind 
him. He knew that it would be left unbarred till eleven 
o’clock that night. He passed on through the court, past 
the house door, to the steward’s office, where through heavy 
curtains a light glimmered. As he put his hand on the 
door it opened, and Marjorie was there. He said nothing, 
nor did she. Her face was pale and steady, and there 
was a question in her eyes. For answer he put the paper 
into her hands, and sat down while she read it. The still- 
ness was as deep here as in the office he had just left. 

IV 

It was a minute or two before either spoke. The girl 
read the paper twice through, holding it close to the little 
hand-lamp that stood on the table. 


256 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ You seCj mistress,” he said, “ it is as bad as it 
can be.” 

She handed back the paper to him; he slid out his spec- 
tacles, put them on, and held the writing to the light. 

“ Here are the points, you see . . .” he went on. “ I 
have annotated them in the margin. First, that Thomas 
FitzHerbert be released from Derby gaol within three days 
from the leaving of Topcliffe for London, and that he be 
no more troubled, neither in fines nor imprisonment; next, 
that he have secured to him, so far as the laws shall permit, 
all his inheritance from Sir Thomas, from his father, and 
from any other bequests whether of his blood-relations or 
no ; thirdly, that Topcliffe do ‘ persecute to the death ’ ” — 
(the lawyer paused, cast a glance at the downcast face of 
the girl) “ " — do persecute to the death " his uncle Sir 
Thomas, his father John, and William Bassett his kinsman; 
and, in return for all this, Thomas FitzHerbert shall become 
her Grace’s sworn servant — that is. Mistress Manners, her 
Grace’s spy, pursuivant, informer and what-not — and that 
he shall grant and secure to Richard Topcliffe, Esquire, and 
to his heirs for ever, ‘ the manors of Over Padley and 
Nether Padley, on the Derwent, with six messuages, two 
cottages, ten gardens', ten orchards, a thousand acres of land, 
five hundred acres of meadow-land, six hundred acres of 
pasture, three hundred acres of wood, a thousand acres of 
furze and heath, in Padley, Grindleford and Lyham, in 
the parish of Hathersage, in consideration of eight hundred 
marksf of silver, to be paid to Thomas FitzHerbert, Esquire, 
etc.’ ” 

The lawyer put the paper down, and pushed his spec- 
tacles on to his forehead. 

“That is a legal instrument.^” asked the girl quietly, 
still with downcast eyes. 

“It is not yet fully completed, but it is signed and wit- 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


257 


nessed. It can become a legal instrument by Topcliffe’s 

act; and it would pas’s muster ” 

“ It is signed by Mr. Thomas } 

He nodded. 

She was silent again. He began to tell her of how he 
had obtained it, and of George’s subtlety and good fortune; 
but she seemed to pay no attention. She sat perfeetly 
still. When he had ended, she spoke again. 

‘lA sworn servant of her Grace ” she began. 

“ Topcliffe is a sworn servant of her Grace,” he said 
bitterly; you may judge by that what Thomas FitzHer- 
bert hath become.” 

“We shall have his hand, too, against us all, then.^ ” 
“Yes, mistress; and, what is worse, this paper I take 
it — ” (he tapped it) “ this paper is to be a secret for the 
present. Mr. Thomas will still feign himself to be a 
Catholic, with Catholics, until he comes into all his inheri- 
tances. And, meantime, he will supply information to his 
new masters.” 

“ Why cannot we expose him ? ” 

“ Where is the proof ? He will deny it.” 

She paused. 

“We can at least tell his family. You will draw up the 
informations ? ” 

“ I will do so.” 

“ And send them to Sir Thomas and Mr. Bassett? ” 

“ I will do so.” 

“ That may perhaps prevent his inheritance coming to 
him as quickly as he thinks.” 

The lawyer’s eyes gleamed. 

“ And what of Mrs. Thomas, mistress ? ” 

Marjorie lifted her eyes. 

“ I do not think a great deal of Mrs. Thomas,” she said. 
“ She is honest, I think ; but she could not be trusted with 


258 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


a secret. But I will tell Mistress Babington, and I will 
warn what priests I can.” 

“ And if it leaks out ? ” 

** It must leak out.” 

** And yourself? Can you meet Mr. Thomas again just 
now? He will be out in three days.” 

Marjorie drew a long breath. 

“ No, sir; I cannot meet him. I should betray what I 
felt. I shall make excuses to Mrs. Thomas, and go home 
to-morrow.” 


PART III 



CHAPTER I 


I 

The “ Red Bull ” in Cheapside was all alight ; a party had 
arrived there from the coast not an hour ago, and the rooms 
that had been bespoken by courier occupied the greater 
part of the second floor; the rest of the house was already 
filled by another large company, spoken for by Mr. Bab- 
ington, although he himself was not one of them. And it 
seemed to the shrewd landlord that these two parties were 
not wholly unknown to one another, although, as a discreet 
man, he said nothing. 

The latest arrived party was plainly come from the coast. 
They had arrived a little after sunset on this stormy Au- 
gust day, splashed to the shoulders by the summer-mud, and 
drenched to the skin by the heavy thunder-showers. Their 
baggage had a battered and sea-going air about it, and the 
landlord thought he would not be far away if he conjec- 
tured Rheims as their starting-point ; there were three 
gentlemen in the party, and four servants apparently; but 
he knew better than to ask questions or to overhear what 
seemed rather over-familiar conversation between the men 
and their masters. There was only one, however, whom 
he remembered to have lodged before, over five years ago. 
The name of this one was Mr. Alban. But all this was 
not his business. His duty was to be hearty and deferen- 
tial and entirely stupid; and certainly this course of be- 
haviour brought him a quantity of guests. 

Mr. Alban, about half-past nine o'clock, had finished 
unstrapping his luggage. It was of the most innocent de- 

261 


262 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


scription^ and contained nothing that all the world might 
not see. He had made arrangements that articles of an- 
other kind should come over from Rheims under the care 
of one of the “ servants,” whose baggage would be less 
suspected. The distribution would take place in a day or 
two. These articles comprised five sets of altar vessels, 
five sets of mass-vestments, made of a stuff woven of all 
the liturgical colours together, a dozen books, a box of 
medals, another of Agnus Deis — little wax medallions 
stamped with the figure of a Lamb supporting a banner — 
a bunch of beads, and a heavy little square package of 
very thin altar-srtones. 

As he laid out the suit of clothes that he proposed to 
wear next day, there was a rapping on his door. 

“ Mr. Babington is come — sir.” (The last word was 
added as an obvious afterthought, in case of listeners.) 

Robin sprang up; the door was opened by his “ s'ervant,” 
and Anthony came in, smiling. 

Mr. Anthony Babington had broadened and aged con- 
siderably during the last five years. He was still youth- 
ful-looking, but he was plainly a man and no longer a boy. 
And he presently said as much for his friend. 

“ You are a man, Robin,” he said. — “ Why, it slipped 
my mind ! ” 

He knelt down promptly on the strip of carpet and kiss'ed 
the palms of the hands held out to him, as is the custom to 
do with newly-ordained priests, and Robin murmured a 
blessing. 

Then the two sat down again. 

“ And now for the news,” said Robin. 

Anthony’s face grew grave. 

** Yours first,” he said. 

So Robin told him. He had been ordained priesrt a 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


263 


month ago, at Chalons-sur-Marne. . . . The college was 
as full as it could hold. . . . They had had an unadven- 
turous journey. 

Anthony put a question or two, and wasf answered. 

“And now,” said Robin, “what of Derbyshire; and of 
the country; and of my father And is it true that Bal- 
lard is taken .f* ” 

Anthony threw an arm over the back of his chair, and 
tried to seem at his ease. 

“ Well,” he said, “ Derbyshire is as it ever was. You 
heard of Thomas FitzHerbert’s defection ” 

“ Mistress Manners wrote to me of it, more than two 
years ago.” 

“ Well, he does what he can: he comes and goes with his 
wife or without her. But he comes no more to Padley. 
And he scarcely makes a feint even before strangers of 
being a Catholic, though he has not declared himself, nor 
gone to church, at any rate in his own county. Here in 
London I have seen him more than once in Topcliffe’s com- 
pany. But I think that every Catholic in the country 
knows of it by *now. That is Mistress Manners’ doing. 
My sister says there has never been a woman like her.” 

Robin’s eyes twinkled. 

“ I always said so,” he said. “ But none would believe 
me. She has the wit and courage of twenty men. What 
has she been doing? ” 

“ What has she not done ? ” cried Anthony. “ She keeps 
herself for the most part in her house; and my sister 
spends a great deal of time with her; hut her men, who 
would die for her, I think, go everywhere; and half the 
hog-herds and shepherds of the Peak are her sworn men. 
I have given your Dick to her; he was mad to do what 
he could in that cause. So her men go this way and that 
bearing her letters or her messages to priests who are on 


264 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


their way through the county ; and she gets news — God 
knows how! — of what is a-stirring against us. She has 
saved Mr. Ludlam twice, and Mr. Garlick once, as well 
as Mr. Simpson once, by getting the news to them of 
the pursuivants’ coming, and having them away into the 
Peak. And yet with all this, she has never been laid by 
the heels.” 

“ Have they been after her, then } ” asked Robin eagerly. 

“ They have had a spy in her house twice to my knowl- 
edge, but never openly; and never a shred of a priest's 
gown to be seen, though mass had been said there that 
day. But they have never searched it by force. And I 
think they do not truly suspect her at all.” 

“ Did I not say so } ” cried Robin. “ And what of my 
father.^ He wrote to me that he was to be made magis- 
trate; and I have never written to him since.” 

“He hath been made magistrate,” said Anthony drily; 
“ and he sits on the bench with the rest of them.” 

“ Then he is all of the same mindr* ” 

“ I know nothing of his mind. I have never spoken with 
him this six years back. I know his acts only. His name 
was in the ‘ Bond of Association,’ too ! ” 

“ I have heard of that.” 

“ Why, it is two years old now. Half the gentry of 
England have joined it,” said Anthony bitterly. “ It is to 
persecute to the death any pretender to the Crown other 
than our Eliza.” 

There was a pause. Robin understood the bitter- 
ness. 

“ And what of Mr. Ballard ? ” asked Robin. 

“ Yes; he is taken,” said Anthony slowly, watching him, 
“ He was taken a week ago.” 

“Will they banish him, then?” 

“ I think they will banish him.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 265 

“ Why, yes — it is the first time he hath been taken. And 
there is nothing great against him ? ” 

I think there is not,” said Anthony, still with that 
strange deliberateness. 

“ Why do you look at me like that? ” 

Anthony stood up without answering. Then he began 
to pace about. As he passed the door he looked to the 
bolt carefully. Then he turned again to his friend. 

“ Robin,” he said, “ would you sooner know a truth that 
will make you unhappy, or be ignorant of it? ” 

“ Does it concern myself or my business ? ” asked Robin 
promptly. 

“ It concerns you and every priest and every Catholic in 
England. It is what I have hinted to you before.” 

“ Then I will hear it.” 

“ It is as if I told it in confession? ” 

Robin paused. 

You may make it so,” he said, “ if you choose.” 

Anthony looked at him an instant. “ Well,” he said, “ I 
will not make a confession, because there is no use in that 
now — but Well, listen ! ” he said, and sat down. 

II 

When he ceased, Robin lifted his head. He was as white 
as a sheet. 

” You have been refused absolution before for this ? ” 

** I was refused absolution by two priests ; but I was 
granted it by a third.” 

Let me see that I have the tale right. 

“ Yourself, with a number of others, have bound your- 
selves by an oath to kill her Grace, and to set Mary on the 
throne. This has taken shape now since the beginning of 
the summer. You yourself are now living in Mr. Walsing- 


266 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


ham’s house^ in Seething Lane^ under the patronage of her 
Grace, and you show yourself freely at court. You have 
proceeded so far, under fear of Mr. Ballard’s arrest, as to 
provide one of your company with clothes and necessaries 
that can enable him to go to court; and it was your inten- 
tion, as well as his, that he should take opportunity to kill 
her Grace. But to-day only you have become persuaded 
that the old design was the better; and you wish first to 
arrange matters with the Queen of the Scots, so that when 
all is ready, you may be the more sure of a rising when 
that her Grace is killed, and that the Duke of Parma may 
be in readiness to bring an army into England. It is still 
your intention to kill her Grace } ” 

“ By God ! it is ! ” said Anthony, between clenched teeth. 

“ Then I could not absolve you, even if you came to con- 
fession. You may be absolved from your allegiance, as we 
all are; but you are not absolved from charity and justice 
towards Elizabeth as a woman. I have consulted theolo- 
gians on the very point; and ” 

Then Anthony sprang up. 

“ See here, Robin ; we must talk this out.” He flicked his 
fingers sharply. “ See — we will talk of it as two friends.” 

“You had better take back Ihose words,” said the priest 
gravely. 

“ Why.?” 

“ It would be my duty to lay an information ! I under- 
stood you spoke to me as to a priest, though not in con- 
fession.” 

“ You would ! ” blazed the other. 

“ I should do so in conscience,” said the priest. “ But 
you have not yet told me as a friend, and ” 

“ You mean ” 

“ I mean that so long as you choose to speak to me of 
it, now and here, it remains that I choose to regard it as 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


267 


sub sigillo in effect. But you must not come to me to-mor- 
row^ as if I knew it all in a plain way. I do not. I know 
it as a priest only.” 

There was silence for a moment. Then Anthony stood 
up. 

“ I understand,” he said. “ But you would refuse me 
absolution in any case.^ ” 

“ I could not give you abs'olution so long as you intended 
to kill her Grace.” 

Anthony made an impatient gesture. 

“ See here,” he said. “ Let me tell you the whole matter 
from the beginning. Now listen.” 

He settled himself again in his chair, and began. 

“ Robin,” he said, “ you remember when I spoke to you 
in the inn on the way to Matstead; it must be seven or 
eight years gone now.^ Well, that was when the beginning 
was. There was no design then, such as we have to-day; 
but the general purpose was there. I had spoken with 
man after man; I had been to France, and seen Mr. Mor- 
gan there. Queen Mary’s man, and my lord of Glasgow; 
and all that I spoke with seemed of one mind — except my 
lord of Glasgow, who did not say much to me on the matter. 
But all at least were agreed that there would be no pea^ 
in England so long as Elizabeth sat on the throne.^,,,---'"^ 

“ Well: it was after that that I fell in with Ballard, who 
was over here on some other affair; and I found him a man 
of the same mind as myself; he was all agog for Mary, 
and seemed afraid of nothing. Well; nothing was done 
for a great while. He wrote to me from France; I wrote 
back to him again, telling him the names of some of my 
friends. I went to see him in France two or three times; 
and I saw him here, when you yourself came over with him. 
But we did not know whom to trust. Neither had we any 


268 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


special design. Her Grace of the Scots went hither and 
thither under strong guards; and what I had done for her 
before ” 

Robin looked up. He was still quite pale and quite quiet. 

“ What was that ? ” he said. 

Anthony again made his impatient gesture. He was 
fiercely excited; but kept himself under tolerable control. 

“ Why, I have been her agent for a great while back, 
getting her letters through to her, and such like. But last 
year, when that damned Sir Amyas Paulet became her 
gaoler, I could do nothing. Two or three times my mes- 
senger was stopped, and the letters taken from him. Well; 
after that time I could do no more. There her Grace was, 
back again at Tutbury, and none could get near her. She 
might no more give alms, even, to the poor; and all her 
letters must go through Walsingham’s hands. And then 
God helped us: she was taken last autumn to Chartley, 
near by which is the house of the Giffords; and since that 
time we have been almost merry. Do you know Gilbert 
Gifford.?” 

“ He hath been with the Jesuits, hath he not? ” 

“ That is the man. Well, Mr. Gilbert Gifford hath been 
God’s angel to us. A quiet, still kind of a man — ^you have 
seen him ? ” 

“ I have spoken with him at Rheims,” said Robin. “ I 
know nothing of him.” 

“Well; he contrived the plan. He hath devised a beer- 
barrel that hath the beer all roundabout, so that when they 
push their rods in, there seems all beer within. But in 
the heart of the beer there is secured a little iron case; and 
within the iron case there is space for papers. Well, this 
barrel goes to and fro to Chartley and to a brewer that is 
a good Catholic; and within the case there are the letters. 
And in this way, all has been prepared ” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


269 


Robin looked up again. He remained quiet through all 
the story; and lifted no more than his eyes. Mis' fingers 
played continually with a button on his doublet. 

“ You mean that Queen Mary hath consented to this.^ ” 

‘‘Why, yes!” 

“ To her sister’s death? ” 

“Why, yes!” 

“I do not believe it,” said the priest quietly. “ On 
whose word does that stand ? ” 

“ Why, on her own ! Whose else’s ? ” snapped Anthony. 

“You mean, you have it in her own hand, signed by her 
name ? ” 

“ It is in Gifford’s hand ! Is not that enough? And there 
is her seal to it. It is in cypher, of course. What would 
you have ? ” 

“ Where is she now? ” asked Robin, paying no attention 
to the question. 

“ She hath just now been moved again to Tixall.” 

“ For what? ” 

“ I do not know. What has that to do with the matter ? 
She will be back soon again. I tell you all is arranged.” 

“Tell me the resrt of the story,” said the priest. 

“ There is not much more. So it stands at present. I 
tell you her Grace hath been tossed to and fro like a ball 
at play. She was at Chatsworth, as you know; she has 
been shut up in Chartley like a criminal; she was at Bab- 
ington House even. God ! if I had hut known it in time ! ” 

“ In Babington House! Why, when was that? ” 

“ Last year, early — with Sir Ralph Sadler, who was her 
gaoler then!” cried Anthony bitterly; “but for a night 
only. ... I have sold the house.” 

“ Sold it!” 

“ I do not keep prisons,” snapped Anthony. “ I will have 
none of it ! ” 


270 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ Well? ” 

“ Well/" resumed the other man quietly. “ I must say 
that when Ballard was taken 

‘‘When was that?” 

“ Last week only. Well, when he was taken I thought 
perhaps all was known. But I find Mr. Walsingham’s con- 
versation very comforting, though little he knows it, poor 
man ! He knows that I am a Catholic ; and he was lament- 
ing to me only three days ago of the zeal of these informers. 
He said he could not save Ballard, so hot was the pursuit 
after him; that he would lose favour with her Grace if he 
did."’ 

“What comfort is there in that?” 

“ Why ; it shows plain enough that nothing is known of 
the true facts. If they were after him for this design of 
ours do you think that Walsingham would speak like that? 
He would clap us all in ward — long ago.” 

The young priest was silent. His head still whirled with 
the tale, and his heart was sick at the misery of it all. 
This was scarcely the home-coming he had looked for ! 
He turned abruptly to the other. 

“ Anthony, lad,” he said, “ I beseech you to give it up.” 

Anthony smiled at him frankly. His excitement was sunk 
down again. 

“ You were always a little soft,” he said. “ I remember 
you would have nought to do with us before. Why, we are 
at war, I tell you ; and it is not we who declared it ! They 
have made war on us now for the last twenty years and 
more. What of all the Catholics — priests and others — 
who have died on the gibbet, or rotted in prison? If her 
Grace makes war upon us, why should we not make war 
upon her Grace? Tell me that, then! "" 

“ Anthony, I beseech you to give it up. I hate the whole 
matter, and fear it, too.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


271 


*‘Fear it? Why^ I tell you, we hold them so/* (He 

stretched out his lean, young hand, and clenched the long 

fingers slowly together.) “We have them by the throat. 
You will be glad enough to profit by it, when Mary reigns. 
What is there to fear ? 

“ I do not know ; I am uneasy. But that is not to the 

purpose. I tell you it is forbidden by God’s ” 

“ Uneasy! Fear it! Why, tell me what there is to fear? 
What hole can you find anywhere? ” 

“ I do not know. I hardly know the tale yet. But it 
seems to me there might be a hundred.” 

“ Tell me one of them, then.” 

Anthony threw himself back with an indulgent smile on 
his face. 

“ Why, if you will have it,” said Robin, roused by the 
contempt, “ there is one great hole in this. All hangs upon 
Gifford’s word, as it seems to me. You have not spoken 
with Mary; you have not even her own hand on it.” 

“Bah! Why, her Grace of the Scots cannot write in 
cypher, do you think? ” 

“ I do not know how that may be. It may be so. But I 
say that all hangs upon Gifford.” 

“ And you think Gifford can be a liar and a knave ! ” 
sneered Anthony. 

“ I have not one word against him,” said the priest. 
“But neither had I against Thomas FitzHerbert; and you 
know what has befallen ” 

Anthony snorted with disdain. 

“ Put your finger through another hole,” he said. 

“ Well — I like not the comfort that Mr. Secretary Wal- 
sringham has given you. You told me a while ago that Bal- 
lard was on the eve of going to France. Now Walsingham 
is no fool. I would to God he were! He has laid enough 
of our men by the heels already.” 


272 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ By God ! ” cried Anthony, roused again. ** I would 
not willingly call you a fool either, my mau! But do you 
not understand that Walsingham believes me as loyal as 
himself? Here have I been at court for the last year, 
bowing before her Grace, and never a word said to me on 
my religion. And here is Walsingham has bidden me to 
lodge in his? house, in the midst of all his spider’s webs. 
Do you think he would do that if ” 

“ I think he might have done so,” said Robin slowly. 

Anthony sprang to his feet. 

“ My Robin,” he said, “ you were right enough when you 
said you would not join with us. You were not made for 
this work. You would see an enemy in your own 
father ” 

He stopped confounded. 

Robin smiled drearily. 

“ I have seen one in him,” he said. 

Anthony clapped him on the shoulder, not unkindly. 

“ Forgive me, my Robin. I did not think what I said. 
Well; we will leave it at that. And you would not give me 
absolution ? ” 

The priest shook his head. 

“ Then give me your blessing,” said Anthony, dropping 
on his knees. “ And so we will close up the quasi-sigillum 
confessionis/^ 

III 

It was a heavy-hearted priest that presently, downstairs, 
stood with Anthony in one of the guest-rooms, and was made 
known to half a dozen strangers. Every word that he had 
heard upstairs must be as if it had never been spoken, 
from the instant at which Anthony had first sat down to 
the instant in which he had kneeled down to receive his 
blessing. So much he knew from his studies at Rheims. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


273 


He must be to each man that he met^ that which he would 
have been to him an hour ago. Yet^ though as? a man he 
must know nothing, his priest’s heart was heavy in his 
breast. It was a strange home-coming — to pass from the 
ordered piety of the college: to the whirl of politics and 
plots in which good and evil span round together — honest 
and fiery zeal for God’s cause, mingled with what he was 
persuaded was crime and abomination. He had thought 
that a priest’s life would be a simple thing, but it seemed 
otherwise now. 

He spoke with those half-dozen men — those who knew 
him well enough for a priest; and presently, when some of 
his own party came, drew aside again with Anthony, who 
began to tell him in a low voice of the personages there. 

“ These are all my private friends,” he said, “ and some 
of them be men of substance in their own place. There is 
Mr. Charnoc, of Lancashire, he with the gilt sword. He 
is of the Court of her Grace, and comes and goes as he 
pleases. He is lodged in Whitehall, and comes here but to 
see his friends. And there is Mr. Savage, in the new 
clothes, with his beard cut short. He is a very honest fel- 
low, but of a small substance, though of good family 
enough.” 

“ Her Grace has some of her ladies, too, that are Catho- 
lics, has she not.^'” asked Robin. 

“ There are two or three at least, and no trouble made. 
They hear mass when they can at the Embassies. Men- 
doza is a very good friend of ours.” 

Mr. Charnoc came up presently to the two. He was a 
cheerful-looking man, of northern descent, very particular 
in his clothes, with large gold ear-rings; he wore a short, 
pointed beard above his stiff ruff, and his eyes were bright 
and fanatical. 

You are from Rheims, I understand, Mr. Alban.” 


274 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


He sat down with something of an air next to Robin. 

“And your county he asked. 

“ I am from Derbyshire, sir/’ said Robin. 

“ From Derbyshire. Then you will have heard of Mis- 
tress Marjorie Manners, no doubt.” 

“ She is an old friend of mine,” said Robin, smiling. (The 
man had a great personal charm about him.) 

“ You are very happy in your friends, then,” said the 
other. “ I have never spoken with her myself ; but I hear 
of her continually as assisting our people — sending them 
now up into the Peak country, now into the towns, as the 
case may be — and never a mistake.” 

It was delightful to Robin to hear her praised, and he 
talked of her keenly and volubly. Exactly that had hap- 
pened which five years ago he would have thought im- 
possible; for every trace of his old feeling towards her was 
gone, leaving behind, and that only in the very deepest 
intimacies of his thought, a sweet and pleasant romance, 
like the glow in the sky when the sun is gone down. Little 
by little that had come about which, in Marjorie, had 
transformed her when she first sent him to Rheims. It was 
not that reaction had followed; there was no contempt, 
either of her or of himself, for what he had once thought 
of her; but another great passion had risen above it — a 
passion of which the human lover cannot even guess, 
kindled for one that is greater than man; a passion fed, 
trained and pruned by those six years of studious peace at 
Rheims, directed by experts in humanity. There he had 
seen what Love could do when it could rise higher than 
its human channels; he had seen young men, scarcely older 
than himself, set out for England, as for their bridals, 
exultant and on fire; and back to Rheims had come again 
the news of their martyrdom: this one died, crying to Jesu 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


275 


as a home-coming child cries to his mother at the garden- 
gate; this one had said nothing upon the scaffold^ but his 
face (they said who brought the news) had been as the 
face of Stephen at his stoning; and others had come back 
themselves, banished, with pain of death on their returning, 
yet back once more these had gone. And, last, more than 
once, there had crept back to Rheims, borne on a litter 
all the way from the coast, the phantom of a man who 
a year or two ago had played “ cat ” and shouted at the 
play — now a bent man, grey-haired, with great scars on 
wrists and ankles. . . . Te Deums had been sung in the 
college chapel when the news of the deaths had come: 
there were no requiems for such as these; and the place of 
the martyr in the refectory was decked with flowers. . . . 
Robin had seen these things, and wondered whether his 
place, too, would some day be so decked. 

For Marjorie, then, he felt nothing but a happy friend- 
liness, and a real delight when he thought of seeing her 
again. It was glorious, he thought, that she had done so 
much; that her name was in all men’s mouths. And he 
had thought, when he had first gone to Rheims, that he 
would do all and she nothing ! He had written to her then, 
freely and happily. He had told her that she must give 
him shelter some day, as she was doing for so many. 

Meanwhile it was pleasant to hear her praises. 

“ * Eve would be Eve,’ ” quoted Mr. Charnoc presently, 
in speaking of pious women’s obstinacy, “ ‘ though Adam 
would say Nay.’ ” 

Then, at last, when Mr. Charnoc said that he must be 
leaving for his own lodgings, and stood up; once more upon 
Robin’s heart there fell the horrible memory of all that 
he had heard upstairs. 


CHAPTER II 


I 

It was strange to Robin to walk about the City, and to 
view all that he saw from his new interior position. The 
last time that he had been in his own country on that 
short visit with “ Captain Fortescue,” he had been innocent 
in the eyes of the law, or, at least, no more guilty than any 
one of the hundreds of young men who, in spite of the reg- 
ulations, were sent abroad to finish their education amid 
Catholic surroundings. Now, however, his very presence 
was an offence: he had broken every law framed expressly 
against such cases as his; he had studied abroad, he had 
been “ ordained beyond the seas ” ; he had read his mass 
in his own bedchamber; he had, practically, received a 
confession ; and it was his fixed and firm intention to 
“ reconcile ” as many of “ her Grace’s subjects ” as possible 
to the “ Roman See.” And, to tell the truth, he found 
pleasure in the sheer adventure of it, as would every young 
man of spirit; and he wore his fine clothes, clinked his 
sword, and cocked his secular hat with delight. 

The burden of what he had heard still was heavy on him. 
It was true that in a manner inconceivable to any but a 
priest it lay apart altogether from his common conscious- 
ness: he had talked freely enough to Mr. Charnoc and the 
rest; he could not, even by a momentary lapse, allow what 
he knew to colour even the thoughts by which he dealt 
with men in ordinary life; for though it was true that no 
confession had been made, yet it was in virtue of his priest- 
hood that he had been told so much. Yet there were mo- 
ments when he walked alone, with nothing else to dis- 

276 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 277 

tract him, when the cloud came down again ; and there were 
moments, too, in spite of himself, when his heart beat with 
another emotion, when he pictured what might not be five 
years hence, if Elizabeth were taken out of the way and 
Mary reigned in her stead. He knew from his father how 
swiftly and enthusiastically the old Faith had come back 
with Mary Tudor after the winter of Edward’s reign. 
And if, as some estimated, a third of England were still 
convincedly Catholic, and perhaps not more than one twen- 
tieth convincedly Protestant, might not Mary Stuart, with 
her charm, accomplish more even than Mary Tudor with 
her lack of it? 

He saw many fine sights during the three or four days 
after his coming to London; for he had to wait there at 
least that time, until a party that was expected from the 
north should arrive with news of where he was to go. 
These were the instructions he had had from Rheims. So 
he walked freely abroad during these days to see the sights ; 
and even ventured to pay a visit to Fathers Garnett and 
Southwell, two Jesuits that arrived a month ago, and were 
for the present lodging in my Lord Vaux’s house in Hack- 
ney. 

He was astonished at Father Southwell’s youthfulness. 

This priest had landed but a short while before, and, 
for the present, was remaining quietly in the edge of Lon- 
don with the older man; for himself was scarcely twenty- 
five years old, and looked twenty at the most. He was 
very quiet and sedate, with a face of almost feminine deli- 
cacy, and passed a good deal of his leisure, as the old 
lord told Robin, in writing verses. He appeared a strangely 
fine instrument for such heavy work as was a priest’s. 

On another day Robin saw the Archbishop land at West- 
minster Stairs. 


278 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


It was a brilliant day of sunshine as he came up the 
river-bank, and a little crowd of folks at the head of the 
stairs drew his attention. Then he heard, out of sight, 
the throb of oars grow louder; then a cry of command; 
and, as he reached the head of the stairs and looked over, 
the Archbishop, with a cloak thrown over his rochet, was 
just stepping out of the huge gilded barge, whose blue-and- 
silver liveried oarsmen steadied the vessel, or stood at the 
salute. It was a gay and dignified spectacle as he per- 
ceived, in spite of his intense antipathy to the sight of a 
man who, to him, was no better than an usurper and a de- 
ceiver of the people. Dr. Whitgift, too, was no friend to 
Catholics: he had, for instance, deliberately defended the 
use of the rack against them and others, unashamed; and 
in one particular instance, at least, as Bishop of Worcester, 
had directed its exercise in the county of Denbigh. These 
things were perfectly known, of course, even beyond the 
seas, to the priests who were to go on the English mission, 
in surprising detail. Robin knew even that this man was 
wholly ignorant of Greek; he looked at him carefully as 
he came up the stairs, and was surprised at the kindly 
face of him, thin-lipped, however, though with pleasant, 
searching eyes. His coach was waiting outside Old Palace 
Yard, and Robin, following with the rest of the little crowd, 
saluted him respectfully as he climbed into it, followed by 
a couple of chaplains. 

As he walked on, he glanced back across the river at 
Lambeth. There it lay, then, the home of Warham and 
Pole and Morton, with the water lapping its towers. It had 
once stood for the spiritual State of God in England, facing 
its partner — (and sometimes its rival) — Westminster and 
Whitehall; now it was a department of the civil State 
merely. It was occupied by men such as Dr. Grindal, 
sequestrated and deprived of even his spiritual functions 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


279 


by the woman who now grasped all the reins of the Com- 
monwealth; and now again by the man whom he had just 
seen, placed there by the same woman to carry out her 
will more obediently against all who denied her supremacy 
in matters spiritual as well as temporal, whether Papists 
or Independents. 

The priest was astonished, as he reached the precincts 
of Whitehall, to observe the number of guards that were 
everywhere visible. He had been warned at Rheims not 
to bring himself into too much notice, no more than mark- 
edly to avoid it; so he did not attempt to penetrate even 
the outer courts or passages. Yet it seemed to him that 
an air of watchfulness was everywhere. At the gate to- 
wards which he looked at least half a dozen men were on 
formal guard, their uniforms and weapons sparkling bril- 
liantly in the sunshine; and besides these, within the open 
doors he caught sight of a couple of officers. As he stood 
there, a man came out of one of the houses near the gate, 
and turned towards it: he was immediately challenged, and 
presently passed on within, where one of the officers came 
forward to speak to him. Then Robin thought he had stood 
looking long enough, and moved away. 

He came back to the City across the fields, half a mile 
away from the river, and, indeed, it was a glorious sight 
he had before him. Here, about him, was open ground on 
either side of the road on which he walked; and there, in 
front, rose up on the slope of the hill the long line of great 
old houses, beyond the stream that ran down into the 
Thames — old Religious Houses for the most part, now dis- 
guised and pulled about beyond recognition, ranging right 
and left from the Ludgate itself: behind these rose again 
towers and roofs, and high above all the tall spire of the 


280 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Cathedral^ as if to gather all into one culminant aspira- 
tion. . . . The light from the west lay on every surface 
that looked to his left, golden and rosy; elsewhere lay blue 
and dusky shadows. 

II 

“ There is a letter for you, sir,’" said the landlord, who 
had an uneasy look on his face, as the priest came through 
the entrance of the inn. 

Robin took it. Its superscription ran shortly: To Mr. 
Alban, at the Red Bull Inn in Cheapside. Haste. Haste. 
Haste.” 

He turned it over; it was sealed plainly on the back 
without arms or any device; it was a thick package, and 
appeared as if it might hold an enclosure or two. 

Robin had learned caution in a good school, and what is 
yet more vital in true caution, an appearance of careless- 
ness. He weighed the packet easily in his hand, as if it 
were of no value, though he knew it might contain very 
questionable stuff from one of his friends, and glanced at 
a quantity of baggage that lay heaped beside the wall. 

“ What is all this? ” he said. Another party arrived? ” 

“ No, sir; the party is leaving. Rather, it is left already; 
and the gentlemen bade me have the baggage ready here. 
They would send for it later, they told me.” 

This was unusually voluble from this man. Robin looked 
at him quickly, and away again. 

“What party?” he said. 

“ The gentlemen you were with this two nights past, sir,” 
said the landlord keenly. 

Robin was aware of a feeling as if a finger had been laid 
on his heart; but not a muscle of his face moved. 

“Indeed!” he said. “They told me nothing of it.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


281 


Then he moved on easily, feeling the landlord’s eyes in 
every inch of his back, and went leisurely upstairs. 

He reached his room, bolted the door softly behind him, 
and sat down. His heart was going now like a hammer. 
Then he opened the packet; an enclosure fell out of it, also 
sealed, but without direction of any kind. Then he saw 
that the sheet in which the packet had come was itself 
covered with writing, rather large and sprawling, as if 
written in haste. He put the packet aside, and then lifted 
the paper to read it. 

When he had finished, he sat quite still. The room 
looked to him misty and unreal; the paper crackled in his 
shaking fingers, and a drop of sweat ran suddenly into the 
corner of his dry lips. Then he read the paper again. It 
ran as follows: 

“ It is all found out, we think. I find myself watched 
at every point, and I can get no speech with B. I cannot 
go forth from the house without a fellow to follow me, 
and two of my friends have found the same. Mr. G., too, 
hath been with Mr. W’^. this three hours back. By chance 
I saw him come in, and he has not yet left again. Mr. 
Ch. is watching for me while I write this, and will see that 
this letter is bestowed on a trusty man who will bring it to 
your inn, and, with it, another letter to bid our party save 
themselves while they can. I do not know how we shall 
fare, but we shall meet at a point that is fixed, and after 
that evade or die together. You were right, you sree. Mr. 
G. has acted the traitor throughout, with Mr. W.’s con- 
nivance and assistance. I beg of you, then, to carry this 
letter, which I send in this, to Her for whom we have 
forfeited our lives, or, at least, our country; or, if you can- 
not take it with safety, master the contents of it by note 
and deliver it to her with your own mouth. She has been 


282 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


taken back to C. again, whither you must go, and all her 
effects searched.” 

There was no signature, but there followed a dash of the 
pen, and then a scrawled “ A. B.,” as if an interruption 
had come, or as if the man who was with the writer would 
wait no longer. 

A third time Robin read it through. It was terribly easy 
of interpretation. ” B.” was Ballard; ” G.” was Gifford; 
“ W.” was Walsingham; “ Ch.” was Charnoc; ” Her ” was 
Mary Stuart ; “ C.” was Chartley. It fitted and made sense 
like a child’s puzzle. And, if the faintest doubt could 
remain in the most incredulous mind as to the horrible 
reality of it all, there was the piled luggage downstairs, 
that would never be ” sent for ” (and never, indeed, needed 
again by its owners in this world). 

Then he took up the second sealed packet, and held it 
unbroken, while his mind flew like a bird, and in less than 
a minute he decided, and opened it. 

It was a piteous letter, signed again merely “ A. B.,” 
and might have been written by any broken-hearted rever- 
ent lover to his beloved. It spoke an eternal good-bye; 
the writer said that he would lay down his life gladly again 
in such a cause if it were called for, and would lay down 
a thousand if he had them; he entreated her to look to her- 
self, for that no doubt every attempt would now be made 
to entrap her; and it warned her to put no longer any 
confidence m a “ detestable knave, G. G.” Finally, he 
begged that “ Jesu would have her in His holy keeping,” 
and that if matters fell out as he thought they would, she 
would pray for his soul, and the souls of all that had been 
with him in the enterprise. 

He read it through three or four times; every line and 
letter burned itself into his brain. Then he tore it 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


283 


across and across ; then he tore the letter addressed to him- 
self in the same manner; then he went through all the 
fragments, piece by piece, tearing each into smaller frag- 
ments, till there remained in his hands just a bunch of tiny 
scraps, smaller than snowflakes, and these he scattered out 
of the window. 

Then he went to his door, unbolted it, and walked down- 
stairs to find the landlord. 


Ill 

It was not until ten days later, soon after dawn, that 
Robin set out on his melancholy errand. He rode out 
northward as soon as the gates were opened, with young 
“ Mr. Arnold,” a priest ordained with him in Rheims, and 
one of his party, disguised as a servant, following him on 
a pack-horse with the luggage. It was a misty morning, 
white and cheerless, with the early fog that had drifted up 
from the river. Last night the news had come in that 
Anthony and at least one other had been taken near Har- 
row, in disguise, and the streets had been full of riotous 
rejoieing over the capture. 

He had thought it more prudent to wait till after receiv- 
ing the news, which he so much dreaded, lest haste should 
bring suspicion on himself, and the message that he carried ; 
since for him, too, to disappear at once would have meant 
an almost inevitable association of him with the party of 
plotters; but it had been a hard time to pass through. 
Early in the morning, after Anthony’s flight, he had 
awakened to hear a rapping upon the inn door, and, peep- 
ing from his window, had seen a couple of plainly dressed 
men waiting for admittance; but after that he had seen no 
more of them. He had deliberately refrained from speak- 
ing with the landlord, except to remark again upon the 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


284 

luggage of which he caught a sight, piled no longer in the 
entrance, but in the little room that the man himself used. 
The landlord had said shortly that it had not yet been sent 
for. And the greater part of the day — after he had told 
the companions that had come with him from Rheims that 
he had had a letter, which seemed to show that the party 
with whom they had made friends had disappeared, and 
were probably under suspicion, and had made the neces- 
sary arrangements for his own departure with young Mr. 
Arnold — he spent in walking abroad as usual. The days 
that followed had been bitter and heavy. He had liked 
neither to stop within doors nor to go abroad, since the one 
course might arouse inquiry and the second lead to his 
identification. He had gone to my Lord Vaux’s house 
again and again, with his friend and without him; he had 
learned of the details of Anthony’s capture, though he 
had not dared even to attempt to get speech with him; 
and, further, that unless the rest of the men were caught, 
it would not be easy to prove anything against him. One 
thing, therefore, he prayed for with all his heart — that 
the rest might yet escape. He told his party something 
of the course of events, but not too much. On the Sunday 
that intervened he went to hear mass in Fetter Lane, where 
numbers of Catholics resorted; and there, piece by piece, 
learned more of the plot than even Anthony had told him. 

Mr. Arnold was a Lancashire man and a young convert 
of Oxford — one of that steady small stream that poured 
over to the Continent — a sufficiently well-born and intelli- 
gent man to enjoy acting as a servant, which he did with 
considerable skill. It was common enough for gentlemen 
to ride side by side with their servants when they had left 
the town; and by the time that the two were clear of the 
few scattered houses outside the City gates, Mr. Arnold 
urged on his horse, and they rode together. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


285 


Robin was in somewhat of a difficulty as to how far he 
was justified in speaking of what he knew. It was true 
that he was not at liberty to use what Anthony had origi- 
nally told him; but the letter and the commission which he 
had received certainly liberated his conscience to some de- 
gree, since it told him plainly enough that there was a 
plot on behalf of Mary, that certain persons, one or two 
of whom he knew for himself, were involved in it, that 
they were under suspicion, and that they had fled. Ordi- 
nary discretion, however, was enough to make him hold 
his tongue, beyond saying, as he had said already to the 
rest of them, that he was the bearer of a message from Mr. 
Babington, now in prison, to Mary Stuart. Mr. Arnold had 
been advertised that he might take up his duties in Lan- 
cashire as soon as he liked ; but, because of his inexperience 
and youth, it had been decided that he had better ride with 
“ Mr. Alban ” so far as Chartley at least, and thence, if all 
were well, go on to Lancaster itself, where his family was 
known, and whither he could return, for the present, with- 
out suspicion. 

The roads, such as they were, were in a terrible state 
still with the heavy rain of a few days ago, and the further 
showers that had fallen in the night. They made very poor 
progress, and by dinner-time were not yet in sight of Wat- 
ford. But they pushed on, coming at last about one o’clock 
to that little town, all gathered together in the trench of 
the low hills. There was a modest inn in the main 
street, with a little garden behind it; and while Mr. Ar- 
nold took the horses off for watering, Robin went through 
to the garden, sat down, and ordered food to be served 
for himself and his man together. The day was warmer, 
and the sun came out as they sat over their meal. When 
they had done, Robin sent his friend off again for the 


286 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


horses. They must not delay longer than was necessary, 
if they wished to sleep at Leighton, and give the horses 
their proper rest. 

When he was left alone, he fell a-thinking once more; 
and, what with the morning’s ride and the air and the sun- 
shine, and the sense of liberty, he was inclined to be more 
cheerful. Surely England was large enough to hide the 
rest of the plotters for a time, until they could get out of 
it. Anthony was taken, indeed, yet, without the rest, he 
might very well escape conviction. Robin had not been 
challenged in any way; the gatekeepers had looked at him, 
indeed, as he came out of the City ; but so they always did, 
and the landlady here had run her eyes over him; but that 
was the way of landladies who wished to know how much 
should be charged to travellers. And if he had come out 
so easily, why should not his friends.^ All turned now, 
to his mind, on whether the rest of the conspirators could 
evade the pursuivants or not. 

He stood up presently to stretch his legs before mounting 
again, and as he stood up he heard running footsteps some- 
where beyond the house : they died away ; but then came the 
sound of another runner, and of another, and he heard 
voices calling. Then a window was flung up beyond the 
house ; steps came rattling down the stairs within and 
passed out into the street. It was probably a bull 
that had escaped, or a mad dog, he thought, or some rustic 
excitement of that kind, and he thought he would go and 
see it for himself; so he passed out through the house, 
just in time to meet Mr. Arnold coming round with the 
horses. 

What was the noise about? ” he asked. 

The other looked at him. 

“ I heard none, sir,” he said. “ I was in the stable.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


287 


Robin looked up and down the street. It seemed as 
empty as it should be on a summer’s day; two or three 
women were at the doors of their houses, and an old dog 
was asleep in the sun. There was no sign of any disturb- 
ance. 

“ Where is the woman of the house ? ” asked Robin. 

“ I do not know, sir.” 

They could not go without paying; but Robin marvelled 
at the simplicity of these folks, to leave a couple of guests 
free to ride away; he went within again and called out, 
but there was no one to be seen. 

“ This is laughable,” he said, coming out again. Shall 
we leave a mark behind us and be off ” 

“Are they all gone, sir?” asked the other, staring at 
him. 

“ I heard some running and calling out just now,” said 
Robin. “ I suppose a message must have been brought to 
the house.” 

Then, as he stood still, hesitating, a noise of voices arose 
suddenly round the corner of the street, and a group of 
men with pitchforks ran out from a gateway on the other 
side, fifty yards away, crossed the road, and disappeared 
again. Behind them ran a woman or two, a barking dog, 
and a string of children. But Robin thought he had caught 
a glimpse of some kind of officer’s uniform at the head of 
the running men, and his heart stood still. 

IV 

Neither of the two spoke for a moment. 

“ Wait here with the horses,” said Robin. “ I must see 
what all this is about.” 

Mr. Arnold was scarcely more than a boy still, and he 
had all the desire of a boy, if he saw an excited crowd, to 


288 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


join himself to it. But he was being a servant just now, 
and must do what he was told. So he waited patiently with 
the two horses that tossed their jingling heads and stamped 
and attempted to kick flies off impossibly remote parts of 
their bodies. Certainly, the excitement was growing. After 
he had seen his friend walk quickly down the road and turn 
off where the group of rustically-armed men had disap- 
peared in the direction where newly-made haystacks shaded 
their gables beyond the roofs of the houses, several other 
figures appeared through the opposite gateway in hot pur- 
suit. One was certainly a guard of some kind, a stout, im- 
portant-looking fellow, who ran and wheezed as he ran 
loud enough to be heard at the inn door. The women 
standing before the houses, too, presently were after the 
rest — all except one old dame, who put her head forth, 
and peered this way and that with a vindictive anger 
at having been left all alone. More yet showed themselves 
— children dragging puppies after them, an old man with 
a large rusty sword, a couple of lads each with a pike — 
these appeared, like figures in a pantomime play, whisking 
into sight from between the houses, and all disappearing 
again immediately. 

And then, all on a sudden, a great clamour of voices 
began, all shouting together, as if some quarry had been 
sighted: it grew louder, sharp cries of command rang above 
the roar. Then there burst out of the side, where all had 
gone in, a ball of children, which exploded into fragments 
and faced about, still with a couple of puppies that barked 
shrilly; and then, walking very fast and upright, came 
Mr. Robin Audrey, white-faced and stern, straight up to 
where the lad waited with the horses. 

Robin jerked his head. 

“Quick!"’ he said. “We must be off, or we shall be 
here all night.” He gathered up his reins for mounting. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 289 

“ What is it_, sir ? ” asked the other, unable to be silent. 

They have caught some fellows,” he said. 

“ And the inn-account, sir ? ” 

Robin pulled out a couple of coins from his pouch. 

“ Put that on the table within,” he said. “ We can wait 
no longer. Give me your reins ! ” 

His manner was so dreadful that the young man dared 
ask no more. He ran in, laid the coins down (they were 
more than double what could have been asked for their 
entertainment), came out again, and mounted his own horse 
that his friend held. As they rode down the street, he could 
not refrain from looking back, as a great roar of voices 
broke out again; but he could see no more than a crowd 
of men, with the pitchforks moving like spears on the out- 
skirt, as if they guarded prisoners within, come out be- 
tween the houses and turn up towards the inn they them- 
selves had just left. 

As they came clear of the village and out again upon the 
open road, Robin turned to him, and his face was still pale 
and stern. 

“ Mr. Arnold,” he said, “ those were the last of my 
friends that I told you of. Now they have them all, and 
there is no longer any hope. They found them behind the 
haystacks next to the garden where we dined. They must 
have been there all night.” 


CHAPTER III 


I 

It was in the evening of the fourth day after their start 
that^ riding up alongside of the Blythe, they struck out to 
the northwest, away from the trees, and saw the woods 
of Chartley not half a mile away. Robin sighed with relief, 
though, as a fact, his adventure was scarcely more than be- 
gun, since he had yet to learn how he could get speech 
with the Queen; but, at least, he was within sight of her, 
and of his own country as well. Far away, eastwards, be- 
yond the hills, not twenty miles off, lay Derby. 

It had been a melancholy ride, in spite of the air of 
freedom through which they rode, since news had come to 
them, in more than one place, of the fortunes of the Bab- 
ington party. A courier, riding fast, had passed them as 
they sighted Buckingham; and by the time they came in, 
he was gone again, on Government business (it was said), 
and the little town hummed with rumours, out of which 
emerged, at any rate, the certainty that the whole com- 
pany had been captured. At Coventry, again, the tidings 
had travelled faster than themselves; for here it was re- 
ported that Mr. Babington and Mr. Charnoc had been 
racked; and in Lichfield, last of all, the tale was complete, 
and (as they learned later) tolerably accurate too. 

It was from a clerk in the inn there that the story came, 
who declared that there was no secrecy about the matter 
any longer, and that he himself had seen the tale in writing. 
It ran as follows: 

The entire plot had been known from the beginning. 

290 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 291 

Gilbert Gifford had been an emissary of Walsingham’s 
throughout; and every letter that passed to and from the 
various personages had passed through the Secretary’s 
hands and been deciphered in his house. There never had 
been one instant in which Mr. Walsingham had been at 
fault, or in the dark: he had gone so far, it was reported, 
as to insert in one of the letters that was to go to Mr. 
Babington a request for the names of all the conspirators, 
and in return there had come from him, not only a list of 
the names, but a pictured group of them, with Mr. Bab- 
ington himself in the midst. This picture had actually 
been shown to her Grace in order that she might guard her- 
self against private assassination, since two or three of the 
group were in her own household. 

“ It is like to go hard with the Scots Queen ! ” said the 
clerk bitterly. “ She has gone too far this time.” 

Robin said nothing to commit himself, for he did not 
know on which side the man ranged himself; but he drew 
him aside after dinner, and asked whether it might be 
possible to get a sight of the Queen. 

“ I am riding to Derby,” he said, “ with my man. But 
if to turn aside at Chartley would give us a chance of seeing 
her, I would do so. A queen in captivity is worth seeing. 
And I can see you are a man of influence.” 

The clerk looked at him shrewdly ; he was a man plainly 
in love with his own importance, and the priest’s last words 
were balm to him. 

“ It might be done,” he said. “ I do not know.” 

Robin saw the impression he had made, and that the 
butter could not be too thick. 

“ I am sure you could do it for me,” he said, “ if any man 
could. But I understand that a man of your position may 
be unwilling ” 

The clerk solemnly laid a hand on the priest’s arm. 


292 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ Well^ I will tell you this/’ he said. “ Get speech witH 
Mr. Bourgoign^ her apothecary. He alone has access to her 
now, besides her own women. It might be he could put you 
in some private place to see her go by.” 

This was not much use, thought Robin; but, at least, 
it gave him something to begin at: so he thanked the clerk 
solemnly and reverentially, and was rewarded by another 
discreet pat on the arm. 

The sight of the Chartley woods, tall and splendid in the 
light of the setting sun, and already tinged here and there 
with the first marks of autumn, brought his indecision to a 
point ; and he realized that he had no plan. He had heard 
that Mary occasionally rode abroad, and he hoped perhaps 
to get speech with her that way; but what he had heard 
from the clerk and others showed him that this small degree 
of liberty was now denied to the Queen. In some way or 
another he must get news of Mr. Bourgoign. Beyond that 
he knew nothing. 

The great gates of Chartley were closed as the two came 
up to them. There was a lodge beside them, and a sentry 
stood there. A bell was ringing from the great house within 
the woods, no doubt for supper-time, but there was no 
other human being besides the sentry to be seen. So Robin 
did not even check his weary horse ; but turned only, with a 
deliberately curious air, as he went past and rode straight 
on. Then, as he rounded a corner he saw smoke going up 
from houses, it seemed, outside the park. 

“What is that?” asked Arnold suddenly. “Do you 
hear ? ” 

A sound of a galloping horse grew louder behind them, 
and a moment afterwards the sound of another. The two 
priests were still in view of the sentry; and knowing that 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


293 


Chartley was guarded now as if it had all the treasures 
of the earth within, Robin reflected that to show too little 
interest might arouse as sharp suspicion as too much. So 
he wheeled his horse round and stopped to look. 

They heard the challenge of the sentry within, and then 
the unbarring of the gates. An instant later a courier 
dashed out and wheeled to the right, while at the same time 
the second galloper came to view — another courier on a 
j aded horse ; and the two passed — the one plainly riding to 
London, the second arriving from it. The gates were yet 
open; but the second was challenged once more before he 
was allowed to pass and his hoofs sounded on the road that 
led to the house. Then the gates clashed together again. 

Robin turned his horse’s head once more towards the 
houses, conscious more than ever how near he was to the 
nerves of England’s life, and what tragic ties they were 
between the two royal cousins, that demanded such a 
furious and frequent exchange of messages. 

“ We must do our best here,” he said, nodding towards 
the little hamlet. 


II 

It was plainly a newly-grown little group of houses that 
bordered the side of the road away from the enclosed park 
— sprung up as a kind of overflow lodging for the de- 
pendants necessary to such a suddenly increased household ; 
for the houses were no more than wooden dwellings, ill- 
roofed and ill-built, with the sap scarcely yet finished 
oozing from the ends of the beams and the planks. Smoke 
was issuing, in most cases, from rough holes cut in the roofs, 
and in the last rays of sunshine two or three men were sit- 
ting on stools set out before the houses. 

Robin checked his horse before a man whose face seemed 


294 - 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


kindly, and who saluted courteously the fine gentleman 
who looked about with such an air. 

“ My horse is dead-spent/’ he said curtly. ** Is there an 
inn here where my man and I can find lodging? 

The man shook his head, looking at the horse compas- 
sionately. He had the air of a groom about him. 

I fear not, sir, not within five miles ; at least, not with 
a room to spare.’* 

“ This is Chartley, is it not? ” asked the priest, noticing 
that the next man, too, was listening. 

“ Aye, sir.” 

“ Can you tell me if my friend Mr. Bourgoign lodges in 
the house, or without the gates? ” 

Mr. Bourgoign, sir? A friend of yours? ” 

“ I hope so,” said Robin, smiling, and keeping at least 
within the letter of truth. 

The man mused a moment. 

“ It is possible he might help you, sir. He lodges in the 
house; but he comes sometimes to see a woman that is 
sick here.” 

Robin demanded where she lived. 

“ At the last house, sir — a little beyond the rest. She is 
one of her Grace’s kitchen-women. They moved her out 
here, thinking it might be the fever she had.” 

This was plainly a communicative fellow; but the priest 
thought it wiser not to take too much interest. He tossed 
the man a coin and rode on. 

The last house was a little better built than the others, 
and stood further back from the road. Robin dismounted 
here, and, with a nod to Mr. Arnold, who was keeping his 
countenance admirably, walked up to the door and knocked 
on it. It was opened instantly, as if he were expected, 
but the woman’s face fell when she saw him. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


295 


“Is Mr. Bourgoign within?” asked the priest. 

The woman glanced over him before answering, and 
then out to where the horses waited. 

“ No, sir,” she said at last. “ We were looking for him 
just now . . .” (She broke off.) “ He is coming now,” 
she said. 

Robin turned, and there, walking down the road, was an 
old man, leaning on a stick, richly and soberly dressed in 
black, wearing a black beaver hat on his head. A man- 
servant followed him at a little distance. 

The priest saw that here was an opportunity ready-made ; 
but there was one more point on which he must satisfy him- 
self first, and what seemed to him an inspiration came to 
his mind. 

“ He looks like a minister,” he said carelessly. 

A curious veiled look came over the woman’s face. Robin 
made a bold venture. He smiled full in her face. 

“ You need not fear,” he said. “ I quarrel with no man’s 
religion;” and, at the look in her face at this, he added: 
“You are a Catholic, I suppose? Well, I am one too. 
And so, I suppose, is Mr. Bourgoign.” 

The woman smiled tremulously, and the fear left her 
eyes. 

“ Yes, sir,” she said. “ All the friends of her Grace are 
Catholics, I think.” 

He nodded to her again genially. Then, turning, he 
went to meet the apothecary, who was now not thirty yards 
away. 

It was a pathetic old figure that was hobbling towards 
him. He seemed a man of near seventy years old, with a 
close-cropped beard and spectacles on his nose, and he 
carried himself heavily and ploddingly. Robin argued to 
himself that it must be a kindly man who would come out 


296 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


at this hour — perhaps the one hour he had to himself — to 
visit a poor dependant. Yet all this was sheer conjeeture; 
and, as the old man came near, he saw there was something 
besides kindliness in the eyes that met his own. 

He saluted boldly and deferentially. 

“ Mr. Bourgoign,” he said in a low voice, “ I must speak 
five minutes with you. And I ask you to make as if you 
were my friend.” 

The old man stiffened like a watch-dog. It was plain 
that he was on his guard. 

“ I do not know you, sir.” 

“ I entreat you to do as I ask. I am a priest, sir. I 
entreat you to take my hand as if we were friends.” 

A look of surprise went over the physieian’s face. 

“You can send me packing in ten minutes,” went on 
Robin rapidly, at the same time holding out his hand. 
“ And we will talk here in the road, if you will.” 

There was still a moment’s hesitation. Then he took the 
priest’s hand. 

“ I am come straight from London,” went on Robin, 
still speaking elearly, yet with his lips seareely moving. 
“ A fortnight ago I talked with Mr. Babington.” 

The old man drew his arm elose within his own. 

“ You have said enough, or too much, at present, sir. 
You shall walk with me a hundred yards up this road, and 
justify what you have said.” 

“We have had a weary ride of it, Mr. Bourgoign. . . . 
I am on the road to Derby,” went on Robin, talking loudly 
enough now to be overheard, as he hoped, by any listeners. 
“ And my horse is spent. ... I will tell you my busi- 
ness,” he added in a lower tone, “ as soon as you bid 
me. 

Fifty yards up the road the old man pressed his arm 
again. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


297 

“ You can tell me now, sir/’ he said. “ But we will walk, 
if you please, while you do so.” 

“ First,” said Robin, after a moment’s consideration as 
to his best beginning, “ I will tell you the name I go by. 
It is Mr. Alban. I am a newly -made priest, as I told you 
just now; I came from Rheims scarcely a fortnight ago. I 
am from Derbyshire; and I will tell you my proper name 
at the end, if you wish it.” 

“ Repeat the blessing of the deacon by the priest at 
mass,” murmured Mr. Bourgoign to the amazement of the 
other, without the change of an inflection in his voice or a 
movement of his hand. 

** Dominus sit in corde tuo et in labiis ” began the 

priest. 

“ That is enough, sir, for the present. Well? ” 

“ Next,” said Robin, hardly yet recovered from the ex- 
traordinary promptness of the challenge — ” Next, I was 
speaking with Mr. Babington a fortnight ago.” 

“ In what place ? ” 

“ In the inn called the ‘ Red Bull,’ in Cheapside.” 

“ Good. I have lodged there myself,” said the other. 
“ And you are one ” 

“ No, sir,” said Robin, ” I do not deny that I spoke with 
them all — with Mr. Charnoc and ” 

“ That is enough of those names, sir,” said the other, 
with a small and fearful lift of his white eyebrows, as if 
he dreaded the very trees that nearly met overhead in this 
place. “And what is your business?” 

“ I have satisfied you, then ” began Robin. 

“ Not at all, sir. You have answered sufficiently so far; 
that is all. I wish to know your business.” 

“ The night following the day on which the men fled, of 
whom I have just spoken, I had a letter from — from their 


298 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


leader. He told me that all was lost^ and he gave me a 
letter to her Grace here ” 

He felt the thin old sinews under his hand contract sud- 
denly, and paused. 

“ Go on, sir,” whispered the old voice. 

“ A letter to her Grace, sir. I was to use my discretion 
whether I carried it with me, or learned it by rote. I have 
other interests at stake besides this, and I used my discre- 
tion, and destroyed the letter.” 

“ But you have some writing, no doubt ” 

” I have none,” said Robin. “ I have my word only.” 

There was a pause. 

” Was the message private? ” 

“ Private only to her Grace’s enemies. I will tell you 
the substance of it now, if you will.” 

The old man, without answering, steered his companion 
nearer to the wall ; then he relinquished the supporting arm, 
and leaned himself against the stones, fixing his eyes full 
upon the priest, and searching, as it seemed, every feature 
of his face and every detail of his dress. 

“ Was the message important, sir ? ” 

” Important only to those who value love and fidelity.” 

“ I could deliver it myself, then? ” 

“ Certainly, sir. If you will give me your word to de- 
liver it to her Grace, as I deliver it to you, and to none 
else, I will ride on and trouble you no more.” 

“ That is enough,” said the physician decidedly. “ I am 
completely satisfied, Mr. Alban. All that remains is to 
consider how I can get you to her Grace.” 

“ But if you yourself will deliver ” began Robin. 

An extraordinary spasm passed over the other’s face, 
that might denote any fierce emotion, either of anger or 
grief. 

“Do you think it is that?” he hissed. “Why, man. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


299 


where is your priesthood? Do you think the poor dame 
within would not give her soul for a priest? . . . Why, I 
have prayed God night and day to send us a priest. She 
is half mad with sorrow; and who knows whether ever 
again in this world ” 

He broke off, his face all distorted with pain; and Robin 
felt a strange thrill of glory at the thought that he bore 
with him, in virtue of his priesthood only, so much con- 
solation. He faced for the first time that tremendous call 
of which he had heard so much in Rheims — that desolate 
cry of souls that longed and longed in vain for those gifts 
which a priest of Christ could alone bestow. . . . 

“ . . . The question is,” the old man was saying more 
quietly, “ how to get you in to her Grace. Why, Sir Amyas 
opens her letters even, and reseals them again! He thinks 
me a fool, and that I do not know what he does. . . . Do 
you know aught of medicine ? ” he asked abruptly. 

“ I know only what country folks know of herbs.” 

“ And their names — their Latin names, man ? ” pursued 
the other, leaning forward. 

Robin half smiled. 

“Now you speak of it,” he said, “ I have learned a good 
many, as a pastime, when I was a boy. I was something of 
a herbalist, even. But I have forgotten ” 

“ Bah ! that would be enough for Sir Amyas ” 

He turned and spat venomously at the name. 

“ Sir Amyas knows nothing save his own vile trade. He 
is a lout — no more. He is as grim as a goose, always. 
And you have a town air about you,” he went on, running 
his eyes critically over the young man’s dress. “ Those 
are French clothes? ” 

“ They were bought in France.” 

The two stood silent. Robin’s excitement beat in all his 
veins, in spite of his weariness. He had come to bear a 


300 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


human message only to a bereaved Queen; and it seemed 
as if his work were to be rather the bearing of a Divine 
message to a lonely soul. He watehed the old man’s face 
eagerly. It was sunk in thought. . . . Then Mr. Bour- 
goign took him abruptly by the arm. 

“ Give me your arm again,” he said. “ I am an old man. 
We must be going back again. It seems as if God heard 
our prayers after all. I will see you disposed for to-night 
— you and your man and the horses, and I will send for 
you myself in the morning. Could you say mass, think 
you.^ if I found you a secure place — and bring Our Lord’s 
Body with you in the morning? ” 

He checked the young man, to hear his answer. 

“ Why, yes,” said Robin. “ I have all things that are 
needed.” 

“ Then you shall say mass in any case . . . and reserve 
our Lord’s Body in a pyx. . . . Now listen to me. If my 
plan falls as I hope, you must be a physician to-morrow, 
and have practised your trade in Paris. You have been in 
Paris?” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Bah ! . . . Well, no more has Sir Amyas ! . . . You 
have practised your trade in Paris, and God has given you 
great skill in the matter of herbs. And, upon hearing that 
I was in Chartley, you inquired for your old friend, whose 
acquaintance you had made in Paris, five years ago. And 
I, upon hearing you were come, secured your willingness 
to see my patient, if you would but consent. Your reputa- 
tion has reached me even here; you have attended His 
Majesty in Paris on three occasions; you restored Made- 
moiselle Elise, of the family of Guise, from the very point 

of death. You are but a young man still; yet Bah! 

It is arranged. You understand? Now come with me.” 


CHAPTER IV 


I 

In spite of his plans and his hopes and his dreams, it was 
with an amazement beyond all telling, that Mr. Robert 
Alban found himself, at nine o’clock next morning, con- 
ducted by two men through the hall at Chartley to the 
little parlour where he was to await Sir Amy as Paulet and 
the Queen’s apothecary. 

Matters had been arranged last night with that prompt- 
ness which alone could make the tale possible. He had 
walked back with the old man in full view of the little 
hamlet, to all appearances, the best of old friends; and 
after providing for a room in the sick woman’s house for 
Robin himself, another in another house for Mr. Arnold, 
and stabling for the horses in a shed where occasionally the 
spent horses of the couriers were housed when Chartley 
stables were overflowing — after all this had been arranged 
by Mr. Bourgoign in person, the two walked on to the great 
gates of the park, where they took an affectionate farewell 
within hearing of the sentry, the apothecary promising to 
see Sir Amyas that night and to communicate with his 
friend in the morning. Robin had learned previously how 
strict was the watch set about the Queen’s person, par- 
ticularly since the news of the Babington plot had first 
reached the authorities, and of the extraordinary difficulty 
to the approach of any stranger to her presence. Nau 
and Curie, her two secretaries, had been arrested and per- 
haps racked a week or ten days before; all the Queen’s 
papers had been taken from her, and even her jewellery 

301 


302 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


and pictures sent off to Elizabeth; and the only persons 
ordinarily allowed to speak with her, besides her gaoler, 
were two of her women, and Mr. Bourgoign himself. 

That morning then, before six o’clock, Robin had said 
mass in the sick woman’s room and given her communion, 
with her companion, who answered his mass, as it was 
thought more prudent that the other priest should not even 
be present; and, at the close of the mass he had reserved 
in a little pyx, hidden beneath his clothes, a consecrated 
particle. Mr. Bourgoign had said that he would see to' 
it that the Queen should be fasting up to ten o’clock that 
day. 

And now the last miracle had been accomplished. A 
servant had come down late the night before, with a dis- 
creet letter from the apothecary, saying that Sir Amyas 
had consented to receive and examine for himself the 
travelling physician from Paris ; and here now went Robin, 
striving to remember the old Latin names he had learned 
as a boy, and to carry a medical air with him. 

The parlour in which he found himself was furnished 
severely and even rather sparely, owing, perhaps, he 
thought, to the temporary nature of the household. It was 
the custom in great houses to carry with the family, from 
house to house, all luxuries such as extra hangings or 
painted pictures or carpets, as well as even such things as 
cooking utensils; and in the Queen’s sudden removal back 
again from Tixall, many matters must have been neglected. 
The oak wainscoting was completely bare; and over the 
upper parts of the walls in many places the stones showed 
through between the ill-fitting tapestries. A sheaf of pikes 
stood in one corner; an oil portrait of an unknown worthy 
in the dress of fifty years ago hung over one of the doors; 
a large round oak table, with ink-horn and pounce-box, 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


303 


stood in the centre of the room with stools beside it: there 
was no hearth or chimney visible; and there was no tapes- 
try upon the floor: a skin only lay between the windows. 
The priest sat down and waited. 

He had enough to occupy his mind; for not only had 
he the thought of the character he was to sustain presently 
under the scrutiny of a suspicious man; but he had the 
prospect, as he hoped, of coming into the presence of the 
most-talked-of woman in Europe, and of ministering to her 
as a priest alone could do, in her sorest need. His hand 
went to his breast as he considered it, and remembered 
What he bore . . . and he felt the tiny flat circular case 
press upon his heart. . . . 

For his imagination was all aflame at the thought of 
Mary. Not only had he been kindled again and again in 
the old days by poor Anthony’s talk, until the woman 
seemed to him half-deified already; but man after man had 
repeated the same tale, that she was, in truth, that which 
her lean cousin of England desired to be thought — a very 
paragon of women, innocent, holy, undefiled, yet of charm 
to drive men to their knees before her presence. It was 
said that she was as one of those strange moths which, 
confined behind glass, will draw their mates out of the 
darkness to beat themselves to death against her prison; 
she was exquisite, they said, in her pale beauty, and yet 
more exquisite in her pain; she exuded a faint and intoxi- 
cating perfume of womanliness, like a crushed herb. Yet 
she was to be worshipped, rather than loved — a sacrament 
to be approached kneeling, an incarnate breath of heaven, 
the more lovely from the vileness into which her life had 
been cast and the slanders that were about her name. . . . 
More marvellous than all was that those who knew her 
best and longest loved her most; her servants wept or 
groaned themselves into fevers if they were excluded from 


304. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


her too long; of her as of the Wisdom of old might it be 
said that, “ They who ate her hungered yet, and they who 
drank her thirsted yet.” ... It was to this miracle of 
humanity, then, that this priest was to come. . . . 

He sat up suddenly, once more pressing his hand to his 
breast, where his Treasure lay hidden, as he heard steps 
crossing the paved hall outside. Then he rose to his feet 
and bowed as a tall man came swiftly in, followed by the 
apothecary. 

II 

It was a lean, harsh-faced man that he saw, long-mous- 
tached and melancholy-eyed — “ grim as a goose,” as the 
physician had said — wearing, even in this guarded house- 
hold, a half-breast and cap of steel. A long sword jingled 
beside him on the stone floor and clashed with his spurred 
boots. He appeared the last man in the world to be the 
companion of a sorrowing Queen; and it was precisely for 
this reason that he had been chosen to replace the courtly 
lord Shrewsbury and the gentle Sir Ralph Sadler. (Her 
Grace of England said that she had had enough of nurses 
for gaolers.) His voice, too, resembled the bitter clash of 
a key in a lock. 

” Well, sir,” he said abruptly, “ Mr. Bourgoign tells me 
you are a friend of his.” 

“ I have that honour, sir.” 

“ You met in Paris, eh? . . . And you profess a knowl- 
edge of herbs beyond the ordinary? ” 

“ Mr. Bourgoign is good enough to say so.” 

“ And you are after her Grace of Scotland, as they call 
her, like all the rest of them, eh? ” 

“ I shall be happy to put what art I possess at her 
Grace of Scotland’s service.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


305 


“ Traitors say as much as that^ sir.” 

“ In the cause of treachery^ no doubt, sir.” 

Sir Amyas barked a kind of laugh. 

Vous avez raisong/* he said with a deplorable accent. 
“ As her Grace would say. And you come purely by chance 
to Chartley, no doubt ! ” 

The sneer was unmistakable. Robin met it full. 

“ Not for one moment, sir. I was on my way to Derby. 
I could have saved a few miles if I had struck north long 
ago. But Chartley is interesting in these days.” 

(He saw Mr. Bourgoign’s eyes gleam with satisfaction.) 

“ That is honest at least, sir. And why is Chartley 
interesting.^ ” 

“ Because her Grace is here,” answered Robin with sub- 
lime simplicity. 

Sir Amyas barked again. It seemed he liked this way 
of talk. For a moment or two his eyes searched Robin — 
hard, narrow eyes like a dog’s ; he looked him up and down. 

“Where are your drugs, sir?” 

Robin smiled. 

“ A herbalist does not need to carry drugs,” he said. 
“ They grow in every hedgerow if a man has eyes to see 
what God has given him.” 

“ That is true enough. I would we had more talk about 
God His Majesty in this household, and less of Popish 
trinkets and fiddle-faddle. . . . Well, sir; do you think 
you can cure her ladyship ? ” 

“ I have no opinion on the point at all, sir. I do not 
know what is the matter with her — beyond what Mr. Bour- 
goign has told me,” he added hastily, remembering the 
supposed situation. 

The soldier paid no attention. Like all slow-witted men, 
he was following up an irrelevant train of thought from his 
own last sentence but one. 


306 COME RACK! CC^E ROPE! 

“Fiddle-faddle!” he said again. “I am sick of her 
megrims and her vapours and her humours. Has she not 
blood and bones like the rest of us? And yet she cannot 
take her food nor her drink^ nor sleep like an honest woman. 
And I do not wonder at it; for that is what she is not. 
They will say she is poisoned, I dare say. . . . Well, sir; 
I suppose you had best see her; but in my presence, re- 
member, sir; in my presence.” 

Robin’s spirits sank like a stone. . . . Moreover, he 
would be instantly detected as a knave (though that hon- 
estly seemed a lesser matter to him), if he attempted to 
talk medically in Sir Amyas’ presence; unless that warrior 
was truly as great a clod as he seemed. He determined to 
risk it. He bowed. 

“ I can at least try my poor skill, sir,” he said. 

Sir Amyas instantly turned, with a jerk of his head to 
beckon them, and clanked out again into the hall. There 
was not a moment’s opportunity for the two conspirators 
to exchange even a word; for there, in the hall, stood the 
two men who had brought Robin in, to keep guard; and 
as the party passed through to the foot of the great stair- 
case, he saw on each landing that was in sight another 
sentry, and, at a door at the end of the overhead gallery, 
against which hung a heavy velvet curtain, stood the last, 
a stern figure to keep guard on the rooms of a Queen, 
with his body-armour complete, a steel hat on his head 
and a pike in his hand. 

It was to this door that Sir Amyas went, acknowledging 
with a lift of the finger the salute of his men. (It was 
plain that this place was under strict military discipline.) 
With the two, the real and the false physician following 
him, he pulled aside the curtain and rapped imperiously on 
the door. It was opened after a moment’s delay by a 
frightened-faced woman. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 307 

“Her Grace?’’ demanded the officer sharply. “Is she 
still abed ? ” 

“ Her Grace is risen, sir,” said the woman tremulously; 
“ she is in the inner room.” 

Sir Amyas strode straight on, pulled aside a second cur- 
tain hanging over the further door, rapped upon that, too, 
and without even waiting for an answer this time, beyond 
the shrill barking of dogs within, opened it and passed in. 
Mr. Bourgoign followed; and Robin came last. The door 
closed softly behind him. 

Ill 

The room was furnished with more decency than any he 
had seen in this harsh house; for, although at the time he 
thought that he had no eyes for anything but one figure 
which it contained, he found himself afterwards able to 
give a very tolerable account of its general appearance. 
The walls were hung throughout with a dark-blue velvet 
hanging, stamped with silver fleur-de-lys. There were 
tapestries on the floor, between which gleamed the polished 
oak boards, perfectly kept, by the labours (no doubt) of 
her Grace’s two women (since such things would be mere 
“ fiddle-faddle ” to the konest soldier) ; a graceful French 
table ran down the centre of the room, very delicately 
carved, and beneath it two baskets from which looked out 
the indignant heads of a couple of little spaniels; upon 
it, at the nearer end, were three or four cages of turtle- 
doves, melancholy-looking in this half-lit room; old, sun- 
bleached curtains of the same material as that which hung 
on the walls, shrouded the two windows on the right, let- 
ting but a half light into the room: there was a further 
door, also curtained, diagonally opposite that by which 
the party had entered; and in the centre of the same wall 
a tall blue canopy, fringed with silver, rose to the ceiling. 


308 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Beneath it, on a dais of a single step, stood a velvet chair, 
with gilded arms, and worked with the royal shield in the 
embroidery of the back — with a crowned lion sejant, guar- 
dant, for the crest above the crown. Half a dozen more 
chairs were ranged about the table; and, on a couch, with 
her feet swathed in draperies, with a woman standing over 
her behind, as if she had just risen up from speaking in 
her ear, lay the Queen of the Scots. A tall silver and 
ebony crucifix, with a couple of velvet-bound, silver-clasped 
little books, stood on the table within reach of her hand, 
and a folded handkerchief beside them. 

Mary was past her prime long ago; she was worn with 
sorrow and slanders and miseries; yet she appeared to the 
priest’s eyes, even then, like a figure of a dream. It was 
partly, no doubt, the faintness of the light that came in 
through the half-shrouded windows that obliterated the 
lines and fallen patches that her face was beginning to bear ; 
and she lay, too, with her back even to such light as there 
was. Yet for all that, and even if he had not known who 
she was, Robin could not have taken his eyes from her 
face. She lay there like a fallen flower, pale as a lily, 
beaten down at last by the waves and storms that had gone 
over her; and she was more beautiful in her downfall and 
disgrace, a thousand times, than when she had come first to 
Holyrood, or danced in the Courts of France. 

Now it is not in the features one by one that beauty lies 
but rather in the coincidence of them all. Her face was 
almost waxen now, blue shadowed beneath the two waves 
of pale hair; she had a small mouth, a delicate nose, and 
large, searching hazel eyes. Her head-dress was of white, 
with silver pins in it; a light white shawl was clasped cross- 
wise over her shoulders; and she wore a loose brocaded 
dressing-gown beneath it. Her hands, clasped as if in 
prayer, emerged out of deep lace-fringed sleeves, and were 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


309 


covered with rings. But it was the air of almost super- 
human delicacy that breathed from her most forcibly; and, 
when she spoke, a ring of assured decision revealed her 
quiet consciousness of royalty. It was an extraordinary 
mingling of fragility and power, of which this feminine and 
royal room was the proper frame. 

Sir Amyas knelt perfunctorily, as if impatient of it; and 
rose up again at once without waiting for the signal. Mary 
lifted her fingers a little as a sign to the other two. 

“ I have brought the French doctor, madam,” said the 
soldier abruptly. “ But he must see your Grace in my 
presence.” 

“ Then you might as well have spared him, and yourself, 
the pains, sir,” came the quiet, dignified voice. “ I do not 
choose to be examined in your presence.” 

Robin lifted his eyes to her face ; but although he thought 
he caught an under air of intense desire towards him and 
That which he bore, there was no faltering in the tone of 
her voice. It was, as some man said, as “ soft as running 
water heard by night.” 

“ This is absurd, madam. I am responsible for your 
Grace’s security and good health. But there are 
lengths ” 

“ You have spoken the very word,” said the Queen. 
“ There are lengths to which none of us should go, even to 
preserve our health.” 

“ I tell you, madam ” 

“ There is no more to be said, sir,” said the Queen, closing 
her eyes again. 

“ But what do I know of this fellow? How can I tell he 
is what he professes to be ? ” barked Sir Amyas. 

“ Then you should never have admitted him at all, said 
the Queen, opening her eyes again. “And I will do the 
best that I can ” 


310 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


“ But, madam, your health is my care ; and Mr. Bour- 
goign here tells me ” 

“ The subject does not interest me,” murmured the 
Queen, apparently half asleep. * 

“ But I will retire to the corner and turn my back, if that 
is necessary,” growled the soldier. 

There was no answer. She lay with closed eyes, and 
her woman began again to fan her gently. 

Robin began to understand the situation a little better. 
It was plain that Sir Amyas was a great deal more anxious 
for the Queen’s health than he pretended to be, or he would 
never have tolerated such objections. The Queen, too, 
must know of this, or she would not have ventured, with 
so much at stake, to treat him with such maddening re- 
buffs. There had been rumours (verified later) that Eliza- 
beth had actually caused it to be suggested to Sir Amyas 
that he should poison his prisoner decently and privately, 
and thereby save a great deal of trouble and scandal; and 
that Sir Amyas had refused with indignation. Perhaps, 
if all this were true, thought Robin, the officer was espe- 
cially careful on this very account that the Queen’s health 
should be above suspicion. He remembered that Sir Amyas 
had referred just now to a suspicion of poison. . . . He 
determined on the bold line. 

“ Her Grace has spoken, sir,” he said modestly. “ And 
I think I should have a word to say. It is plain to me, 
by looking at her Grace, that her health is very far from 
what it should be — ” (he paused significantly) — “ I should 
have to make a thorough examination, if I prescribed at 
all; and, even should her Grace consent to this being done 
publicly, for my part I would not consent. I should be 
happy to have her women here, but ” 

Sir Amyas turned on him wrathfully. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


311 


** Why, sir, you said downstairs 

“ I had not then seen her Grace. But there is no more 

to be said ” He kneeled again as if to take his leave, 

stood up, and began to retire to the door. Mr. Bourgoign 
stood helpless. 

Then Sir Amyas yielded. 

“ You shall have fifteen minutes, sir. No more,” he 
cried harshly. “ And I shall remain in the next room.” 

He made a perfunctory salute and strode out. 

The Queen opened her eyes, waited for one tense instant 
till the door closed; then she slipped swiftly off the couch. 

“ The door ! ” she whispered. 

The woman was across the room in an instant, on tip- 
toe, and drew the single slender bolt. The Queen made a 
sharp gesture; the woman fled back again on one side, and 
out through the further door, and the old man hobbled after 
her. It was as if every detail had been rehearsed. The 
door closed noiselessly. 

Then the Queen rose up, as Robin, understanding, began 
to fumble with his breast. And, as he drew out the pyx, 
and placed it on the handkerchief (in reality a corporal), 
apparently so carelessly laid by the crucifix, Mary sank 
down in adoration of her Lord. 

“ Now, mon pere/* she whispered, still kneeling, but 
lifting her star-bright eyes. And the priest went across 
to the couch where the Queen had lain, and sat down on it. 

** In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti — • — ” began 
Mary. 

IV 

When the confession was finished, Robin went across, 
at the Queen’s order, and tapped with his finger-nail upon 
the door, while she herself remained on her knees. The 
door opened instantly, and the two came in, the woman 


312 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


first, bearing two lighted tapers. She set these down one 
on either side of the crucifix, and herself knelt with the old 
physician. 

. . . Then Robin gave holy communion to the Queen of 
the Scots. . . . 

V 

She was back again on her couch now, once more as 
drowsy-looking as ever. The candlesticks were gone again; 
the handkerchief still in its place, and the woman back 
again behind the couch. The two men kneeled close beside 
her, near enough to hear every whisper. 

“ Listen, gentlemen,” she said softly, “ I cannot tell you 
what you have done for my soul to-day — both of you, since 
I could never have had the priest without my friend. . . . 
I cannot reward you, but our Lord will do so abundantly. 
. . . Listen, I know that I am going to my death, and I 
thank God that I have made my peace with Him. I do not 
know if they will allow me to see a priest again. But I 
wish to say this to both of you — as I said just now in my 
confession, to you, mon pere — that I am wholly and utterly 
guiltless of the plot laid to my charge; that I had neither 
part nor wish nor consent in it. I desired only to escape 
from my captivity. ... I would have made war, if I could, 
yes, but as for accomplishing or assisting in her Grace’s 
death, the thought was never near me. Those whom I 
thought my friends have entrapped me, and have given 
colour to the tale. I pray our Saviour to forgive them as 
I do; and with that Saviour now in my breast I tell you — 
and you may tell all the world if you will — that I am 
guiltless of what they impute to me. I shall die for my 
Religion, and nothing but that. And I thank you again, 
mon pere, et vous, mon ami, que vous avez . . .” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 313 

Her voice died away in inaudible French, and her eyes 
closed. 

Robin’s eyes were raining tears, but he leaned forward 
and kissed her hand as it lay on the edge of the couch. He 
felt himself touched on the shoulder, and he stood up. The 
old man’s eyes, too, were brimming with tears. 

“ I must let Sir Amyas in,” he whispered. ** You must 
be ready.” 

“ What shall I say? ” 

“ Say that you will prescribe privately, to me: and that 
her Grace’s health is indeed delicate, but not gravely im- 
paired. . . . You understand?” 

Robin nodded, passing his sleeve over his eyes. The 
woman touched the Queen’s shoulder to rouse her, and Mr. 
Bourgoign opened the door. 


VI 

And now, sir,” said Mr. Bourgoign, as the two passed 
out from the house half an hour later, “ I have one more 
word to say to you. Listen carefully, if you please, for 
there is not much time.” 

He glanced behind him, but the tall figure was gone from 
the door; there remained only the two pikemen that kept 
ward over the great house on the steps. 

“ Come this way,” said the physician, and led the priest 
through into the little walled garden on the south. “ He 
will think we are finishing our consultation.” 

“ I cannot tell you,” he said presently, “ all that I think 
of your courage and your wit. You made a bold stroke 
when you told him you would begone again, unless you 
could see her Grace alone, and again when you said you 


314 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


had come to Chartley because she was here. And you 
may go again now, knowing you have comforted a woman 
in her greatest need. They sent her chaplain from her 
when she left here for Tixall in July, and she has not had 
him again yet. She is watched at every point. They 
have taken all her papers from her, and have seduced M. 
Nau, I fear. Did you hear anything of him in town.^ ” 

“ No,” said the priest. “ I know nothing of him.” 

“ He is a Frenchman, and hath been with her Grace 
more than ten years. He hath written her letters for her, 
and been privy to all her counsels. And I fear he hath 
been seduced from her at last. It was said that Mr. Wal- 
singham was to take him into his house. . . . Well, but we 
have not time for this. What I have to ask you is whether 
you could come again to us ? ” 

He peered at the priest almost timorously. Robin was 
startled. 

“ Come again? ” he said. “ Why ” 

“ You see you have already won to her presence, and 
Sir Amyas is committed to it that you are a safe man. I 
shall tell her Grace, too, that she must eat and drink well, 
and get better, if she would see you again, for that will 
establish you in Sir Amyas’ eyes.” 

“ But will she not have a priest? ” 

“ I know nothing, Mr. Alban. They even shut me up 
here when they took her to Tixall; and even now none but 
myself and her two women have access to her. I do not 
know even if her Grace will be left here. There has been 
talk among the men of going to Fotheringay. I know noth- 
ing, from day to day. It is a ... a cauchemar. But 
they will certainly do what they can to shake her. It 
grows more rigorous every day. And I thought, that if 
you would tell me whether a message could reach you, and if 
her chaplain is not allowed to see her again, you might be 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


315 


able to come again. I would tell Sir Amyas how much 
good you had done to her last time^ with your herbs; and, 
it might be, you could see her again in a month or two per- 
haps — or later.’* 

Robin was silent. 

The greatness of the affair terrified him; yet its melan- 
choly drew him. He had seen her on whom all England 
bent its thoughts at this time, who was a crowned Queen, 
with broad lands and wealth, who called Elizabeth “ sis- 
ter ” ; yet who was more of a prisoner than any in the Fleet 
or Westminster Gatehouse, since those at least could have 
their friends to come to them. Her hidden fires, too, had 
warmed him — that passion for God that had burst from 
her when her gaoler left her, and she had flung herself on 
her knees before her hidden Saviour. It may be he had 
doubted her before (he did not know) ; but there was no 
more doubt in him after her protestation of her innocence. 
He began to see now that she stood for more than her king- 
dom or her son or the plots attributed to her, that she was 
more than a mere great woman, for whose sake men could 
both live and die; he began to see in her that which poor 
Anthony had seen — a champion for the Faith of them all, 
an incarnate suffering symbol, in flesh and blood, of that 
Religion for which he, too, was in peril — that Religion, 
which, in spite of all clamour to the contrary, was the real 
storm-centre of England’s life. 

He turned then to the old man with a suddenly flushed 
face. 

“ A message will always reach me at Mistress Manners’ 
house, at Booth’s Edge, near Hathersage, in Derbyshire. 
And I will come from there, or from the world s end, to 
serve her Grace.” 


CHAPTER V 


I 

“ First give me your blessing, Mr. Alban,’* said Marjorie, 
kneeling down before him in the hall in front of them all. 
She was as pale as a ghost, but her eyes shone like stars. 

It was a couple of months after his leaving Chartley be- 
fore he came at last to Booth’s Edge. First he had had to 
bestow Mr. Arnold in Lancashire, for suspicion was abroad ; 
and it was a letter from Marjorie herself, reaching him in 
Derby, at Mr. Biddell’s house, that had told him of it, and 
bidden him go on with his friend. The town had never 
been the same since Topcliffe’s visit; and now that Babing- 
ton House was no longer in safe Catholic hands, a great 
protection was gone. He had better go on, she said, as if 
he were what he professed to be — a gentleman travelling 
with his servant. A rumour had come to her ears that 
the talk in the town was of the expected arrival of a new 
priest to take Mr. Garlick’s place for the present, and 
every stranger was scrutinised. So he had taken her ad- 
vice; he had left Derby again immediately, and had slowly 
travelled north; then, coming round about from the north, 
after leaving his f^riend, saying mass here and there where 
he could, crossing into Yorkshire even as far west as Wake- 
field, he had come at last, through this wet November day, 
along the Derwent valley and up to Booth’s Edge, where 
he arrived after sunset, to find the hall filled with folks 
to greet him. 

He was smiling himself, though his eyes were full of 
tears, by the time that he had done giving his blessings. 

316 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


317 


Mr. John FitzHerbert was come up from Padley^ where he 
lived now for short times together, greyer than ever, but 
with the same resolute faee. Mistress Alice Babington was 
there, still serene looking, but with a new sorrow in her eyes ; 
and, clinging to her, a thin, pale girl all in blaek, who only 
two months before had lost both daughter and husband ; for 
the child had died scareely a week or two before her 
father, Anthony Babington, had died miserably on the gal- 
lows^ near St. Giles’ Fields, where he had so often met his 
friends after dark. It was a ghastly tale, told in fragments 
to Robin here and there during his journeyings by men in 
taverns, before whom he must keep a brave faee. And a 
few farmers were there, old Mr. Merton among them, come 
in to welcome the son of the Squire of Matstead, returned 
under a feigned name, unknown even to his father, and 
there, too, was honest Dick Sampson, come up from Dethick 
to see his old master. So here, in the hall he knew so well, 
himself splashed with red marl from ankle to shoulder, still 
cloaked and spurred, one by one these knelt before him, 
beginning with Marjorie herself, and ending with the 
youngest farm-boy, who breathed heavily as he knelt down 
and got up round-eyed and staring. 

“ And his Reverence will hear confessions,” proclaimed 
Marjorie to the multitude, “at eight o’clock to-night; and 
he will say mass and give holy communion at six o’clock 
to-morrow morning.” 

II 

He had to hear that night, after supper, and before he 
went to keep his engagement in the chapel-room, the entire 
news of the county; and, in his turn, to tell his own ad- 
ventures. The company sat together before the great hall- 
fire, to take the dessert, since there would have been no 
room in the parlour for all who wished to hear. (He heard 


S18 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


the tale of Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert^ traitor, apostate and 
sworn man of her Grace, later, when he had come down 
again from the chapel-room, and the servants had gone.) 
But now it was of less tragic matters, and more trium- 
phant, that they talked: he told of his adventures since he 
had landed in August; of his riding in Lancashire and 
Yorkshire, and of the fervour that he met with there (in 
one place, he said, he had reconciled the old minister of the 
parish, that had been made priest under Mary thirty years 
ago, and now lay dying) ; but he said nothing at that time 
of what he had seen of her Grace of Scotland, and Chart- 
ley: and the rest, on the other hand, talked of what had 
passed in Derby, of all that Mr. Ludlam and Mr. Garlick 
had done; of the arrest and banishment of the latter, and 
his immediate return; of the hanging of Mr. Francis In- 
golby, in York, which had made a great stir in the north 
that summer, since he was the son of Sir Francis, of Ripley 
Castle; as well as of the deaths of many others — Mr. Fin- 
glow in August; Mr. Sandys, in the same month, in 
Gloucester; and of Mr. Lowe, Mr. Adams and Mr. Dibdale, 
all together at Tyburn, the news of which had but just 
come to Derbyshire; and of Mistress Clitheroe, that had 
been pressed to death in York, for the very crime which 
Mistress Marjorie Manners was perpetrating at this mo- 
ment, namely, the assistance and harbourage of priests; or, 
rather, for refusing to plead when she had been arrested 
for that crime, lest she should bring them into trouble. 

And then at last they began to speak of Mary in Fother- 
ingay and at that a maid came in to say that it was eight 
o’clock, and would his Reverence come up, as a few had to 
travel home that night and to come again next day. . . . 

It was after nine o’clock before he came downstairs again, 
to find the gentlefolk alone in the little parlour that opened 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


319 


from the hall. It gave him a strange thrill of pleasure to 
see them there in the firelight; the four of them only — 
Mr. John in the midst, with the three ladies; and an empty 
chair waiting for the priest. He would hear their confes- 
sions presently when the servants were gone to bed. A 
great mug of warm ale stood by his place, to comfort him 
after his long ride and his spiritual labours. 

Mr. John told him first the news of his own son, as was 
his duty to do; and he told it without bitterness, in a level 
voice, leaning his cheek on his hand. 

It appeared that Mr. Thomas still passed for a Catholic 
among the simpler folk; but with none else. All the great 
houses round about had the truth as an open secret; and 
their doors were closed to him; neither had any priest 
been near him, since the day when Mr. Simpson met him 
alone on the moors and spoke to him of his soul. Even 
then Mr. Thomas had blustered and declared that there 
was no truth in the tale; and had so ridden away at last, 
saying that such pestering was enough to make a man lose 
his religion altogether. 

“ As for me,” said Mr. John, “ he has not been near me, 
nor I near him. He lives at Norbury for the most part. 
My brother is attempting to set aside the disposition he 
had made in his favour; but they say that it will be made 
to stand; and that my son will get it all yet. But he has 
not troubled us at Padley; nor will he, I think.” 

“ He is at Norbury, you say, sir.^^ ” 

“ Yes ; but he goes here and there continually. He has 
been to London to lay informations, I have no doubt, for I 
know that he hath been seen there in Topcliffe’s company. 
... It seems that we are to be in the thick of the conflict. 
We have had above a dozen priests in this county alone 
arraigned for treason, and the most of them executed.” 

His voice had gone lower, and trembled once or twice 


$20 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


as he talked. It was plain that he could not bear to speak 
much more against the son that had turned against him and 
his Faith, for the sake of his own liberty and the estates he 
had hoped to have. Robin made haste to turn the talk. 

“And my father, sir?’* 

Mr. John looked at him tenderly. 

“ You must ask Mistress Marjorie of him,” he said. “ I 
have not seen him these three years.” 

Robin turned to the girl. 

“ I have had no more news of him since what I wrote to 
you,” she said quietly. “ After I had spoken with him, 
and he had given me the warning, he held himself aloof.” 

“ Hath he been at any of the trials at Derby ? ’* 

She bowed her head. 

“He was at the trial of Mr. Garlick,” she said; “last 
year; and was one of those who spoke for his banishment.’* 

And then, on a sudden. Mistress Alice moved in her cor- 
ner, where she sat with the widow of her brother. 

“ And what of her Grace? ” she said. “ Is it true what 
Dick told us before supper, that Parliament hath sentenced 
her ? ** 

Robin shook his head. 

“ I hear so much gossip,” he said, “ in the taverns, that 
I believe nothing. I had not heard that. Tell me what 
it was.” 

He was in a torment of mind as to what he should say 
of his own adventure at Chartley. On the one side it was 
plain that no rumour of the tale must get abroad or he 
would never be able to come to her again; on the other 
side, no word had come from Mr. Bourgoign, though two 
months had passed. He knew, indeed, what all the world 
, knew by now, that a trial had been held by over forty lords 
in Fotheringay Castle, whither the Queen had been moved 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


321 


at the end of September, and that reports had been sent 
of it to London. But for the rest he knew no more than 
the others. Tales ran about the country on every side. 
One man would say that he had it from London direct that 
Parliament had sentenced her; another that the Queen of 
England had given her consent too; a third, that Parlia- 
ment had not dared to touch the matter at all; a fourth, 
that Elizabeth had pardoned her. But, for Robin, his 
hesitation largely lay in his knowledge that it was on the 
Babington plot that all would turn, and that this would 
have been the chief charge against her; and here, but a 
yard away from him, in the gloom of the chimney-breast 
sat Anthony’s wife and sister. How could he say that this 
was so, and yet that he believed her wholly innocent of a 
crime which he detested.^ He had dreaded this talk the 
instant that he had seen them in the hall and heard their 
names. 

But Mistress Alice would not be put off. She repeated 
what she had said. Dick had come up from Dethick only 
that afternoon, and was now gone again, so that he could 
not be questioned; but he had told his mistress plainly 
that the story in Derby, brought in by couriers, was that 
Parliament had consented and had passed sentence on her 
Grace; that her Grace herself had received the news only 
the day before; but that the warrant was not signed. 

“ And on what charge ? ” asked Robin desperately. 

Mistress Alice’s voice rang out proudly; but he saw her 
press the girl closer as she spoke. 

“ That she was privy to the plot which my . . . my 
brother had a hand in.” 

Then Robin drew a breath and decided. 

” It may be so,” he said. “ But I do not believe she was 
privy to it. I spoke with her Grace at Chartley ” 

There was a swift movement in the half circle. 


322 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ I spoke with her Grace at Chartley,” he said. ** I 
went to her under guise of a herbalist: I heard her confes- 
sion and gave her communion; and she declared publicly^ 
before two witnesses, after she had had communion, that 
she was guiltless.” 

Robin was no story-teller; but for half an hour he was 
forced to become one, until his hearers were satisfied. Even 
here, in the distant hills, Mary’s name was a key to a 
treasure-house of mysteries. It was through this country, 
too, that she had passed again and again. It was at old 
Chatsworth — the square house with the huge Italian and 
Dutch gardens, that a Cavendish had bought thirty years 
ago from the Agards — that she had passed part of her 
captivity; it was in Derby that she had halted for a night 
last year ; it was near Burton that she had slept two months 
ago on her road to Fotheringay; and to hear now of her, 
from one who had spoken to her that very autumn, was as 
a revelation. So Robin told it as well as he could. 

“ And it may be,” he said, “ that I shall have to go again. 
Mr. Bourgoign said that he would send to me if he could. 
But I have heard no word from him.” (He glanced round 
the watching faces.) “ And I need not say that I shall 
hear no word at all, if the tale I have told you leak out.” 

“ Perhaps she hath a chaplain again,” said Mr. John, 
after pause. 

“ I do not think so,” said the priest. “ If she had none 
at Chartley, she would all the less have one at Fotherin- 
gay.” 

“And it may be you will be sent for again?” asked 
Marjorie’s voice gently from the darkness. 

“ It may be so,” said the priest. 

“ The letter is to be sent here ? ” she asked. 

“ I told Mr. Bourgoign so.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


S23 


“ Does any other know you are here? 

“ No, Mistress Marjorie/’ 

There was a pause. 

“ It is growing late,” said Mr. John. “ Will your Rev- 
erence go upstairs with me; and these ladies will come 
after, I think.” 

Ill 

If it had been a great day for Robin that he should come 
back to his own country after six years, and be received in 
this house of strange memories; that he should sit upstairs 
as a priest, and hear confessions in that very parlour where 
nearly seven years ago he had sat with Marjorie as her 
accepted lover — if all this had been charged, to him, with 
emotions and memories which, however he had outgrown 
them, yet echoed somewhere wonderfully in his mind; it 
was no less a kind of climax and consummation to the girl 
whose house this was, and who had waited so long to receive 
back a lover who came now in so different a guise. 

But it must be made plain that to neither of them was 
there a thought or a memory that ought not to be. To 
those who hold that men are no better, except for their 
brains, than other animals; that they are but, after all, 
bundles of sense from which all love and aspiration take 
their rise— to such the thing will seem simply false. They 
will say that it was not so; that all that strange yearning 
that Marjorie had to see the man back again; that the 
excitement that beat in Robin’s heart as he had ridden up 
the well-remembered slope, all in the dark, and had seen 
the lighted windows at the top; that these were but the 
old loves in the disguise of piety. But to those who under- 
stand what priesthood is, for him that receives it, and for 
the soul that reverences it, the thing is a truism. For 
the priest was one who loved Christ more than all the 


824 COME RACK! COME ROPE! 

world ; and the woman one who loved priesthood more 
than herself. 

Yet her memories of him that remained in her had, of 
course, a place in her heart; and, though she knelt before 
him presently in the little parlour where once he had kneeled 
before her, as simply as a child before her father, and told 
her sins, and received Christ’s pardon, and went away to 
make room for the next — though all this was without a 
reproach in her eyes; yet, as she went she knew that she 
must face a fresh struggle, and a temptation that would not 
have been one-tenth so fierce if it had been some other 
priest that was in peril. That peril was Fotheringay, 
where (as she knew well enough) every strange face would 
be scrutinized as perhaps nowhere else in all England; and 
that temptation lay in the knowledge that when that letter 
should come (as she knew in her heart it would come), it 
would be through her hands that it would pass — if it passed 
indeed. 

While the others went to the priest one by one, Marjorie 
kneeled in her room, fighting with a devil that was not yet 
come to her, as is the way with sensitive consciences. 


CHAPTER VI 


I 

The suspense at Fotheringay grew deeper with every day 
that passed. 

Christmas was come and gone, and no sign was made 
from London, so far, at least, as the little town was con- 
cerned. There came almost daily from the castle new tales 
of slights put upon the Queen, and now and again of new 
favours granted to her. Her chaplain, withdrawn for a 
while, had been admitted to her again a week before Christ- 
mas; a crowd had collected to see the Popish priest ride in, 
and had remarked on his timorous air; and about the same 
time a courier had been watched as he rode off to London, 
bearing, it was rumoured, one last appeal from one Queen 
to the other. On the other hand, it was known that 
Mary no longer had her dais in her chamber, and that the 
billiard-table, which she never used, had been taken away 
again. 

But all this had happened before Christmas, and now a 
month had gone by, and although this or that tale of dis- 
courtesy from gaoler to prisoner leaked out through the 
servants ; though it was known that the crucifix which Mary 
had hung up in the place where her dais had stood re- 
mained undisturbed — though this argument or the other 
could be advanced in turn by men sitting over their wine in 
the taverns, that the Queen’s cause was rising or falling, 
nothing was truly known the one way or the other. It had 
been proclaimed, by trumpet, in every town in England, 
that sentence of death was passed; yet this was two or 
three months ago, and the knowledge that the warrant had 

325 


326 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


not yet been signed seemed an argument to some that now 
it never would be. 

A group was waiting (as a group usually did wait) at 
the village entrance to the new bridge lately built by her 
Grace of England, towards sunset on an evening late in 
January. This situation commanded, so far as was pos- 
sible, every point of interest. It was the beginning of the 
London road, up which so many couriers had passed; it 
was over this bridge that her Grace of Scotland herself 
had come from her cross-country journey from Chartley. 
On the left, looking northwards, rose the great old colle- 
giate church, with its graceful lantern tower, above the 
low thatched stone houses of the village; on the right, ad- 
joining the village beyond the big inn, rose the huge keep 
of the castle and its walls, within its double moats, ranged 
in form of a fetterlock of which the river itself was its 
straight side. Beyond, the low rolling hills and meadows 
met the chilly January sky. 

For four months now the village had been transformed 
into a kind of camp. The castle itself was crammed to 
bursting. The row of little windows beside the hall on the 
first floor, visible only from the road that led past the inn 
parallel to the river, marked the lodgings of the Queen, 
where, with the hall also for her use, she lived continually; 
the rest of the castle was full of men-at-arms, officers, great 
lords who came and went — these, with the castellan’s rooms 
and those of his people. Sir Amyas’ lodgings, and the space 
occupied by Mary’s own servants — all these filled' the 
castle entirely. For the rest — the garrison not on duty, the 
grooms, the couriers, the lesser servants, the suites of the 
visitors, and even many of the visitors themselves — these 
filled the two inns of the little town completely, and over- 
flowed everywhere into the houses of the people. It was a 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


327 


vision of a garrison in war-time that the countryfolk gaped 
at continually; the street sparkled all day with liveries 
and arms; archers went to and fro; the trample of horses, 
the sharp military orders at the changings of guard outside 
and within the towered gateway that commanded the 
entrance over the moats, the songs of men over their wine 
in the tavern-parlours — these things had become matters of 
common observation, and fired many a young farm-man 
with a zeal for arms. 

The Queen herself was a mystery. 

They had seen, for a moment, as she drove in after dark 
last September, a coach (in which, it was said, she had sat 
with her back to the horses) surrounded by guards; patient 
watchers had, perhaps, half a dozen times altogether caught 
a glimpse of a woman’s face, at a window that was supposed 
to be hers, look out for an instant over the wall that skirted 
the moat. But that was all. They heard the trumpets’ 
cry within the castle; and even learned to distinguish some- 
thing of what each signified — the call for the changing of 
guards, the announcement of dinner and supper ; the 

warning to the gatekeepers that persons were to pass out. 

But of her, round whom all this centred, of the prison-queen 
of this hive of angry bees, they knew less than of her 
Grace of England whom once they had seen ride in through 
these very gates. Tales, of course, were abundant — gossip 
from servant to servant, filtering down at last, distorted or 
attenuated, to the rustics who watched and exclaimed ; 
but there was not a soldier who kept her, not a cook who 
served her, of whom they did not know more than of herself. 
There were even parties in the village; or, rather, there 

was a silent group who did not join in the universal dis- 

approval, but these were queer and fantastic persons, who 
still held to the old ways and would not go to church with 
the rest. 


328 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


A little more material had been supplied for conversa- 
tion by the events of to-day. It had positively been re- 
ported, by a fellow who had been to see about a room 
for himself in the village, that he had been turned out of 
the castle to make space for her Grace’s chaplain. This 
was puzzling. Had not the Popish priest already been 
in the castle five or six weeks? Then why should he now 
require another chamber? 

The argument waxed hot by the bridge. One said that 
it was another priest that was come in disguise; another, 
that once a Popish priest got a foothold in a place he was 
never content till he got the whole for himself; a third, 
that the fellow had simply lied, and that he was turned out 
because he had been caught by Sir Amyas making love 
to one of the maids. Each was positive of his own thesis, 
and argued for it by the process of re-assertion that it was 
so, and that his opponents were fools. They spat into the 
water; one got out a tobacco pipe that a soldier had given 
him and made a great show of filling it, though he had no 
flint to light it with; another proclaimed that for two figs 
he would go and inquire at the gateway itself. . . . 

To this barren war of the schools came a fact at last, and 
its bearer was a gorgeous figure of a man-at-arms (who, 
later, got into trouble by talking too much), who came 
swaggering down the road from the New Inn, blowing smoke 
into the air, with his hat on one side, and his breast-piece 
loose; and declared in that strange clipped London-English 
of his that he had been on guard at the door of Sir Amyas’ 
room, and had heard him tell Melville the steward and 
De Preau the priest that they must no longer have access 
to her Grace, but must move their lodgings elsewhere within 
the castle. 

This, then, had to be discussed once more from the begin- 
ning. One said that this was an evident sign that the end 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


329 


was to come and that Madam was to die; another that^ on 
the contrary, it was plain that this was not so, but 
that rather she was to be compelled by greater strictness 
to acknowledge her guilt; a third, that it was none of these 
things, but rather that Madam was turning Protestant at 
last in order to save her life, and had devised this manner 
of ridding herself of the priest. And the soldier damned 
them all round as block-fools, who knew nothing and talked 
all the more for it. 

The dark was beginning to fall before the group broke 
up, and none of them took much notice of a young man 
on a fresh horse, who rode quietly out of the yard of the 
New Inn as the saunierers came up. One of them, three 
minutes later, however, heard suddenly from across the 
bridge the sound of a horse breaking into a gallop and 
presently dying away westwards beyond Perry Lane. 

II 

Within the castle that evening nothing happened that 
was of any note to its more careless occupants. All was as 
usual. 

The guard at the towers that controlled the drawbridge 
across the outer moat was changed at four o’clock; six men 
came out, under an officer, from the inner court; the words 
were exchanged, and the six that went off duty marched in- 
to the armoury to lay by their pikes and presently dispersed, 
four to their rooms in the east side of the quadrangle, 
two to their quarters in the village. From the kitchen came 
the clash of dishes. Sir Amyas came out from the direc- 
tion of the keep, where he had been conferring with Mr. 
FitzWilliam, the castellan, and passed across to his lodging 
on the south. A butcher hurried in, under escort of a 


330 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


couple of men from the gate, with a covered basket and 
disappeared into the kitchen entry. All these things were 
observed idly by the dozen guards who stood two at each 
of the five doors that gave upon the courtyard. Presently, 
too, hardly ten minutes after the guard was changed, three 
figures came out at the staircase foot where Sir Amyas had 
just gone in, and stood there apparently talking in low 
voices. Then one of them, Mr. Melville, the Queejn’s stew- 
ard, came across the court with Mr. Bourgoign towards 
the outer entrance, passed under it, and presently Mr. 
Bourgoign came back and wheeled sharply in to the right 
by the entry that led up to the Queen’s lodging. Mean- 
while the third figure, whom one of the men had thought 
to be M. de Preau, had gone back again towards Mr. Mel- 
ville’s rooms. 

That was all that was to be seen, until half an hour 
later, a few minutes before the drawbridge was raised for 
the night, the steward came back, crossed the court once 
more and vanished into the entry opposite. 

It was about this time that the young man had ridden 
out from the New Inn. 

Then the sun went down; the flambeaux were lighted 
beneath the two great entrances — in the towered archway 
across the moat, and the smaller vaulted archway within, 
as well as one more flambeau stuck into the iron ring by 
each of the four more court-doors, and lights began to burn 
in the windows^ round about. The man at Sir Amyas’ 
staircase looked across the court and idly wondered what 
was passing in the rooms opposite on the first floor where 
the Queen was lodged. He had heard that the priest had 
been forced to change his room, and was to sleep in Mr. 
Melville’s for the present; so her Grace would have to get 
on without him as well as she could. There would be no 
Popish mass to-morrow, then, in the oratory that he had 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


331 


heard was made upstairs. . . . He marvelled at the super- 
stition that made this a burden. . . . 

At a quarter before six a trumpet blew, and presently 
the tall windows of the hall aeross the court from him began 
to kindle. That was for her Grace’s supper to 'be served. 
At five minutes to six another trumpet sounded, and M. 
Landet, the Queen’s butler, hurried out with his white rod 
to take his place for the entrance of the dishes. Finally, 
through the ground-floor window at the foot of the Queen’s 
stair, the man caught a glimpse of moving figures passing 
towards the hall. That would be her Grace going in state 
to her supper with her women ; but, for the first time, with- 
out either priest to say grace or steward to escort her. He 
saw, too, the couple of guards under the inner archway 
come to the salute as the little procession came for an in- 
stant within their view; and Mr. Newrins, the butler of 
the castle, stop suddenly and pull off his cap as he was 
hurrying in to be in time for the supper of the gentlemen 
that was served in the keep half an hour after the Queen’s. 

Meanwhile, ten miles away, along the Uppingham and 
Leicester track, rode a young man through the dark. 

Ill 

Sunday, too, passed as usual. 

At half-past eight the bells of the church pealed out for 
the morning service, and the village street was thronged 
with worshippers and a few soldiers. At nine o’clock they 
ceased, and the street was empty. At eleven o’clock the 
trumpets sounded to announce change of guard, and to tell 
the kitchen folk that dishing-time was come. Half an hour 
later once more the little procession glinted a moment 
through the ground-floor window of the Queen’s stair as 


SS2 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


her Grace went to dinner. (She was not very well, the 
cooks had reported, and had eaten but little last night.) 
At twelve o’clock she came out again and went upstairs, 
and at the same time, in Leicester, a young man, splashed 
from head to foot, slipped off a draggled and exhausted 
horse and went into an inn, ordering a fresh horse to be 
ready for him at three o’clock. 

And so once more the sun went down, and the little 
rituals were performed, and the guards were changed, and 
M. Landet, for the last time in his life (though he did not 
know it), came out from the kitchen with his white rod 
to bear it before the dishes of a Queen; and Sir Amyas 
walked in from the orchard and was saluted, and Mr. 
FitzWilliam went his rounds, and the drawbridge was 
raised. And, at the time that the drawbridge was raised, 
a young man on a horse was wondering when he should 
see the lights of Burton. . . . 

IV 

The first that Mistress Manners knew of his coming in 
the early hours of Monday morning, was when she was 
awakened by Janet in the pitch darkness shaking her 
shoulder. 

“ It is a young man,” she said, “ on foot. His horse 
fell five miles off. He is come with a letter from Derby.” 

Sleep fell from Marjorie like a cloak. This kind of 
thing had happened to her before. Now and then such a 
letter would come from a priest who lacked money or de- 
sired a guide or information. She sprang out of bed and 
began to put on her outer dress and her hooded cloak, as 
the night was cold. 

“ Bring him into the hall,” she said. “ Get beer and 
some food, and blow the fire up.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


S33 


Janet vanished. 

When the mistress came down five minutes later, all had 
been done as she had ordered. The turf and wood fire 
leaped in the chimney; a young man, still with his hat on 
his head and drawn down a little over his face, was sitting 
over the hearth, steaming like a kettle, eating voraciously. 
Janet was waiting discreetly by the doors. Marjorie 
nodded to her, and she went out; she had learned that 
her mistress’s secrets were not always her own as well. 

“ I am Mistress Manners,” she said. “ You have a letter 
for me? ” 

The young man stood up. 

I know you well enough, mistress,” he said. “ I am 
John Merton’s son.” 

Marjorie’s heart leaped with relief. In spite of her de- 
termination that this must be a letter from a priest, there 
had still thrust itself before her mind the possibility that it 
might be that other letter whose coming she had feared. She 
had told herself fiercely as she came downstairs just now, 
that it could not be. No news was come from Fotheringay 
all the winter; it was common knowledge that her Grace 
had a priest of her own. And now that this was John Mer- 
ton’s son 

She smiled. 

“ Give me the letter,” she said. “ I should have known 
you, too, if it were not for the dark.” 

“ Well, mistress,” he said, “ the letter was to be delivered 
to you, Mr. Melville said; but ” 

“ Who? ” 

“ Mr. Melville, mistress: her Grace’s steward at Fother- 
ingay.” 

He talked on a moment or two, beginning to say that 
Mr. Melville himself had come out to the inn; that he, as 


334 ! 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


Melville’s own servant, had been lodging there, and had 
been bidden to hold himself in readiness, since he knew 
Derbyshire. . . . But she was not listening. She only 
knew that that had fallen which she feared. 

“ Give me the letter,” she said again. 

He sat down, excusing himself, and fumbled with his 
boot; and by tlie time that he held it out to her, she was 
in the thick of the conflict. She knew well enough what it 
meant — that there was no peril in all England like that to 
which this letter called her friend, there, waiting for him 
in Fotheringay where every strange face was suspected, 
where a Popish priest was as a sheep in a den of wolves, 
where there would be no mercy at all if he were discovered ; 
and where, if he were to be of use at all, he must adven- 
ture himself in the very spot where he would be most sus- 
pected, on a task that would be thought the last word in 
treason and disobedience. And, worst of all, this priest 
had lodged in the tavern where the conspirators had lodged ; 
he had talked with them the night before their flight, and 
now, here he was, striving to get access to her for whom 
all had been designed. Was there a soul in England that 
could doubt his complicity? . . . And it was to her own 
house here in Derbyshire that he had come for shelter; it 
was here that he had said mass yesterday; and it must be 
from this house that he must ride, on one of her horses ; and 
it must be her hand that gave him the summons. Last of all, 
it was she, Marjorie Manners, that had sent him to this 
life, six years ago. 

Then, as she took the letter, the shrewd woman in her 
spoke. It was irresistible, and she seemed to listen to a 
voice that was not hers. 

“ Does any here know that you are come ? ” 

No, mistress.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


335 


“If I bade you, and said that I had reasons for it, 
you would ride away again alone, without a word to 
any? 

“ Why, yes, mistress ! 

(Oh! the plan was irresistible and complete. She would 
send this messenger away again on one of her own horses 
as far as Derby; he could leave the horse there, and she 
would send a man for it to-morrow. He would go back to 
Fotheringay and would wait, he and those that had sent 
him. And the priest they expected would not come. He, 
too, himself, had ceased to expect any word from Mr. 
Bourgoign ; he had said a month ago that surely none 
would come now. He had been away from Booth’s Edge, 
in fact, for nearly a month, and had scarcely even asked on 
his return last Saturday to Padley, whether any message 
had come. Why, it was complete — complete and irresist- 
ible! She would burn the letter here in this hall-fire when 
the man was gone again; and say to Janet that the letter 
had been from a travelling ^Driest that was in trouble, and 
that she had sent the answer. And Robin would presently 
cease to look for news, and the end would come, and there 
would be no more trouble.) 

“Do you know what is in the letter?” she whispered 
sharply. (“ Sit down again and go on eating.”) 

He obeyed her. 

“ Yes, mistress,” he said. “ The priest was taken from 
her on Saturday. Mr. Bourgoign had arranged all in 
readiness for that.” 

“ You said Mr. Melville.” 

“ Mr. Melville is a Protestant, mistress ; but he is very 
well devoted to her Grace, and has done as Mr. Bourgoign 
wished.” 

“ Why must her Grace have a priest at once ? Surely 
for a few days ” 


336 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


He glanced up at her^ and she, conscious of her own 
falseness, thought he looked astonished. 

“ I mean that they will surely give her her priest back 
again presently; and” — (her voice faltered) — “and Mr. 
Alban is spent with his travelling.” 

“ They mean to kill her, mistress. There is no doubt of 
it amongst those of us that are Catholics. And it is that 
she may have a priest before she dies, that ” 

He paused. 

“Yes.^” she said. 

“ Her Grace had a fit of crying, it is said, when her 
priest was taken from her. Mr. Melville was crying him- 
self, even though ” 

He stopped, himself plainly affected. 

Then, in a great surge, her own heart rose up, and she 
understood what she was doing. As in a vision, she saw 
her own mother crying out for the priest that never came; 
and she understood that horror of darkness that falls on 
one who, knowing what the priest can do, knowing the 
infinite consolations which Christ gives, is deprived, when 
physical death approaches, of that tremendous strength and 
comfort. Indeed, she recognised to the full that when a 
priest cannot be had, God will save and forgive without 
him; yet what would be the heartlessness, to say nothing 
of the guilt, of one that would keep him away? For what, 
except that this strength and comfort might be at the serv- 
ice of Christ’s flock, had her own life been spent? It was 
expressly for this that she had lived on in England 
when peace and the cloister might be hers elsewhere; and 
now that her own life was touched, should she fail? . . . 
The blindness passed like a dream, and her soul rose up 
again on a wave of pain and exaltation. . . . 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! SS7 

“ Wait/’ she said. “ I will go and awaken him, and bid 
him come down.” 

V 

An hour later, as the first streaks of dawn slit the sky 
to the eastwards over the moors, she stood with Janet and 
Mistress Alice and Robin by the hall fire. 

She had said not a word to any of the struggle she had 
passed through. She had gone upstairs resolutely and 
knocked on his door till he had answered, and then whis- 
pered, “ The letter is come. ... I will have food ready ” ; 
slipping the letter beneath the door. 

Then she had sent Janet to awaken a couple of men that 
slept over the stables, and bid them saddle two horses at 
once; and herself had gone to the buttery to make ready a 
meal. Then Mistress Alice had awakened and come down- 
stairs, and the three women had waited on the priest, as, in 
boots and cloak, he had taken some food. 

Then, as the sound of the horses’ feet coming round from 
the stables at the back had reached them, she had deter- 
mined to tell Robin before he went of how she had played 
the coward. 

She went out with him to the entry between the hall 
and the buttery, holding the others back with a glance. 

“ I near destroyed the letter,” she said simply, with 
downcast eyes, “ and sent the man away again. I was 
afraid of what might fall at Fotheringay. . . . May Christ 
protect you ! ” 

She said no more than that, but turned and called the 
others before he could speak. 

As he gathered up the reins a moment later, before mount- 
ing, the three women kneeled down in the lighted entry 
and the two farm-men by the horses’ heads, and the priest 
gave them his blessing. 


CHAPTER VII 


I 

It was not until after dawn on Wednesday, the twenty- 
fifth of January, as the bells were ringing in the parish 
church for the Conversion of St. Paul, that the two draggled 
travellers rode in over the bridge of Fotheringay, seeing 
the castle-keep rise grim and grey out of the river-mists 
on the right; and, passing on, dismounted in the yard of 
the New Inn. They had had one or two small misadven- 
tures by the way, and young Merton, through sheer sleepi- 
ness, had so reeled in his saddle on the afternoon of Mon- 
day, that the priest had insisted that they should both have 
at least one good night’s rest. But they had ridden all 
Tuesday night without drawing rein, and Robin, going up 
to the room that he was to share with the young man, fell 
upon the bed, and asleep, all in one act. 

He was awakened by the trumpets sounding for dinner 
in the castle-yard, and sat up to find young John looking 
at him. The news that he brought drove the last shreds of 
sleep from his brain. 

“ I have seen Mr. Melville, my master, sir. He bids 
me say it is useless for Mr. Bourgoign, or anyone else, to at- 
tempt anything with Sir Amyas for the present. Mr. Mel- 
ville hath spoken to Sir Amyas as to his separation from 
her Grace, and could get no reason for it. But the same 
day — it was of Monday — her Grace’s butler was forbidden 
any more to carry the white rod before her dishes. This 
is as much as to signify, Mr. Melville says, that her Grace’s 
royalty shall no longer protect her. #It is their intention, 

338 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


3S9 


he says, to degrade her first, before they execute her. And 
we may look for the warrant any day, my master says.” 

The young man stared at him mournfully. 

“ And M. de Preau? ” 

“ M. de Preau goes about as a ghost. He will come and 
speak with your Reverence before the day is out. Mean- 
while, Mr. Melville says you may walk abroad freely. Sir 
Amyas never goes forth of the castle now, and none will 
notice. But they might take notice, Mr. Melville says, if 
you were to lie all day in your chamber.” 

It was after dinner, as Robin rose from the table in a 
parlour, where he had dined with two or three lawyers ajnd 
an officer of Mr. Fitz William, that John Merton came to 
him and told him that a gentleman was waiting. He went 
upstairs and found the priest, a little timorous-looking man, 
dressed like a minister, pacing quickly to and fro in the 
tiny room at the top of the house where John and he were 
to sleep. The Frenchman seized his two hands and began 
to pour out in an agitated whisper a torrent of French and 
English. Robin disengaged himself. 

“ You must sit down, M. de Preau,” he said, “ and speak 
slowly, or I shall not understand one word. Tell me pre- 
cisely what I must do. I am here to obey orders — no more. 
I have no design in my head at all. I will do what Mr. 
Bourgoign and yourself decide.” 

It was pathetic to watch the little priest. He interrupted 
himself by a thousand apostrophes; he lifted hands and 
eyes to the ceiling repeatedly; he named his poor mistress 
saint and martyr; he cried out against the barbarian land 
in which he found himself, and the bloodthirsty tigers with 
whom, like a second Daniel, he himself had to consort; he 
expatiated on the horrible risk that he ran in venturing 


340 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


forth from the castle on such an errand, saying that Sir 
Amyas would wring his neck like a hen’s, if he so much 
as suspected the nature of his business. He denounced, 
with feeble venom, the wickedness of these murderers, who 
would not only slay his mistress’s body, but her soul as 
well, if they could, by depriving her of a priest. Inci- 
dentally, however, he disclosed that at present there was 
no plan at all for Robin’s admission. Mr. Bourgoign 
had sent for him, hoping that he might be able to re- 
introduce him once more on the same pretext as at Chartley ; 
but the incident of Monday, when the white rod had been 
forbidden, and the conversation of Sir Amyas to Mr. Mel- 
ville had made it evident that an attempt at present would 
be worse than useless. 

“ You must yourself choose ! ” he cried, with an abom- 
inable accent. “If you will imperil your life by remaining, 
our Lord will no doubt reward you in eternity; but, if 
not, and you flee, not a man will blame you — least of all 
myself, who would, no doubt, flee too, if I but dared.” 

This was frank and humble, at any rate. Robin smiled. 

“ I will remain,” he said. 

The Frenchman seized his hands and kissed them. 

“ You are a hero and a martyr, monsieur ! We will 
perish together, therefore.” 

II 

After the Frenchman’s departure, and an hour’s sleep in 
that profundity of unconsciousness that follows prolonged 
effort, Robin put on his sword and hat and cloak, having 
dressed himself with care, and went slowly out of the inn 
to inspect the battlefield. He carried himself deliberately, 
with a kind of assured insolence, as if he had supreme 
rights in this place, and were one of that crowd of persons 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


341 


— great lords, lawyers, agents of the court — to whom for 
the last few months Fotheringay had become accustomed. 
He turned first to the right towards the castle, and pres- 
ently was passing down its long length. 

It looked, indeed, a royal prison. A low wall on his 
right protected the road from the huge outer moat that 
ran, in the shape of a fetterlock, completely round all the 
buildings; and beyond it, springing immediately from the 
edge of the water, rose the massive outer wall, pierced here 
and there with windows. He thought that he could make 
out the tops of the hall windows in one place, beyond the 
skirting wall, the pinnacles of the chapel in another, and a 
row of further windows that might be lodgings in a third; 
but from without here nothing was certain, except the 
gigantic keep, that stood high to the west, and the strong 
towers that guarded the drawbridge; this, as he went by, 
was lowered to its place, and he could look across it into 
the archway, where four men stood on guard with their 
pikes. The inner doors, however, were closed beyond them, 
and he could see nothing of the inner moat that surrounded 
the court, nor the yard itself. Neither did he think it 
prudent to ask any questions, though he looked freely about 
him; since the part he must play for the present plainly 
was that of one who had a right here and knew what he 
did. 

He came back to the inn an hour later, after a walk 
through the village and round the locked church: this was 
a splendid building, with flying buttresses and a high tower, 
with exterior carvings of saints and evangelists all in place. 
But it looked desolate to him, and he was the more de- 
jected, as he seemed no nearer to the Queen than before, 
and with little chance of getting there. Meanwhile, there 
was but one thing to be done, and that the hardest of all — 
to wait. Perhaps in a few days he might get speech with 


342 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Mr. Bourgoign; yet for the present that, too, as the priest 
had told aim, was out of the question. 

Ill 

Five days were gone by, Sunday had come and gone, 
and yet there had been no news, except a letter conveyed 
to him by Merton, written by Mr. Bourgoign himself, tell- 
ing him that he had news that Mr. Beale, the Clerk of the 
Council, was to arrive some time that week, and that this 
presaged the approach of the end. He would, therefore, 
do his utmost within the next few days to approach Sir 
Amyas and ask for the admission of the young herbalist 
who had done her Grace so much good at Chartley. He 
added that if any question were to be raised as to why he 
had been so long in the place, and why, indeed, he had 
come at all, he was to answer fearlessly that Mr. Bour- 
goign had sent for him. 

On the Sunday night Robin could not sleep. Little by 
little the hideous suspense was acting upon him, and the 
knowledge that not a hundred yards away from him the 
wonderful woman whom he had seen at Chartley, the loving 
and humble Catholic, who had kneeled so ardently before 
her Lord, the Queen who had received from him the sacra- 
ments for which she thirsted — the knowledge that she was 
breaking her heart, so near, for the consolation which a 
priest only could give, and that he, a priest, was free to 
go through all England, except through that towered gate- 
way past which he walked every day — this increased his 
misery and his longing. 

The very day he had been through — ^the Sunday on which 
he could neither say nor even hear mass (for, because of 
the greatness of that which was at stake, he had thought 
it wiser to bring with him nothing that could arouse sus- 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 343 

picion) — and the hearing of the bells from the church 
calling to Protestant prayers, and the sight of the crowds 
going and returning — this brought him lower than he had 
been since his first coming to England. He lay then in 
the darkness, turning from side to side, thinking of these 
things, listening to the breathing of the young man who 
lay on blankets at the foot of his bed. 

About midnight he could lie there no longer. He got 
out of bed noiselessly, stepped across the other, went to 
the window-seat and sat down there, staring out, with eyes 
well accustomed to the darkness, towards the vast outline 
against the sky which he knew was the keep of the castle. 
No light burned there to relieve its brutality. It remained 
there, implacable as English justice, immovable as the heart 
of Elizabeth and the composure of the gaoler who kept 
it. . . . Then he drew out Mr. Maine’s rosary and began 
to recite the “ Sorrowful Mysteries.” . . . 

He supposed afterwards that he had begun to doze; 
but he started, wide-awake, at a sudden glare of light in his 
eyes, as if a beacon had flared for an instant somewhere 
within the castle enclosure. It was gone again, however; 
there remained the steady monstrous mass of building and 
the heavy sky. Then, as he watched, it came again, with- 
out warning and without sound — that same brilliant flare 
of light, against which the towers and walls stood out pitch- 
black. A third time it came, and all was dark once 
more. 

In the morning, as he sat over his ale in the tavern be- 
low, he listened, without lifting his eyes, engrossed, it 
seemed, in a little book he was reading, to the excited talk 
of a group of soldiers. One of them, he said, had been 
on guard beneath the Queen’s windows last night, and be- 
tween midnight and one o’clock had seen three times a 


344i 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


brilliant light explode itself,, like soundless gunpowder, im- 
mediately over the room where she slept. And this he as- 
serted, over and over again. 

IV 

On the following Saturday John Merton came up into 
the room where the priest was sleeping after dinner and 
awakened him. 

“If you will come at once with me, sir, you can have 
speech with Mr. Bourgoign. My master has sent me to 
tell you so; Mr. Bourgoign has leave to go out.” 

Robin said nothing. It was the kind of opportunity 
that must not be imperilled by a single word that might 
be overheard. He threw on his great cloak, buckled his 
sword on, and followed with every nerve awake. They 
went up the street leading towards the church, and turned 
down a little passage-way between two of the larger houses ; 
the young man pushed on a door in the wall; and Robin 
went through, to find himself in a little enclosed garden 
with Mr. Bourgoign gathering herbs from the border, not 
a yard from him. The physician said nothing; he glanced 
sharply up and pointed to a seat set under the shelter of 
the wall that hid the greater part of the garden from the 
house to which it belonged; and as Robin reached it, Mr. 
Bourgoign, still gathering his herbs, began to speak in an 
undertone. 

“ Do not speak except very softly, if you must,” he said. 
“ The Queen is sick again ; and I have leave to gather herbs 
for her in two or three gardens. It was refused to me at 
first and then granted afterwards. From that I look for 
the worst. . . . Beale will come to-morrow, I hear. . . . 
Paulet refused me leave the first time, I make no doubt, 
knowing that all was to end within a day or two: then he 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


S45 


granted it me, for fear I should suspect his reason. (Can 
you hear me, sir.^)” 

Robin nodded. His heart thumped within him. 

“Well, sir; I shall tell Sir Amyas to-morrow that my 
herbs do no good — that I do not know what to give her 
Grace. I have seen her Grace continually, but with a man 
in the room always. . . . Her Grace knows that you are 
here, and bids me thank you with all her heart. ... I 
shall speak to Sir Amyas, and shall tell him that you are 
here : and that I sent for you, but did not dare to ask leave 
for you until now. If he refuses I shall know that all is 
finished, and that Beale has brought the warrant with him. 
. . . If he consents I shall think that it is put off for a 
little. . . 

He was very near to Robin now, still, with a critical air 
pushing the herbs this way and that, selecting one now 
and again. 

“ Have you anything to say to me, sir? Do not speak 
loud. The fellow that conducted me from the castle is 
drinking ale in the house behind. He did not know of this 
door on the side. . . . Have you anything to say ? ” 

“ Yes,’" said Robin. 

“ What is it? ” 

“ Two things. The first is that I think one of the fellows 
in the inn is doubtful of me. Merton tells me he has asked 
a great number of questions about me. What had I best 
do?” 

“ Who is he?” 

“ He is a servant of my lord Shrewsbury’s who is in the 
neighbourhood.” 

The doctor was silent. 

“ Am I in danger ? ” asked the priest quietly. “ Shall I 
endanger her Grace ? ” 


346 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“You cannot endanger her Grace. She is near her end 
in any case. But for yourself ” 

“ Yes.-^^ 

“ You are endangering yourself every instant by remain- 
ing/’ said the doctor dryly. 

“ The second matter ” began Robin. 

“ But what of yourself ” 

“ Myself must be endangered,” said Robin softly. “ The 
second matter is whether you cannot get me near her Grace 
in the event of her execution. I could at least give her ab- 
solution suh conditione/* 

Mr. Bourgoign shot a glance at him which he could not 
interpret. 

“ Sir/’ he said ; “ God will reward you. ... As regards 
the second matter it will be exceedingly difficult. If it is to 
be in the open court, I may perhaps contrive it. If it is 
to be in the hall, none but known persons would be ad- 
mitted. . . . Have you anything more, sir.^ ” 

“ No.” 

“ Then you had best be gone again at once. . . . Her 
Grace prays for you. . . . She had a fit of weeping last 
night to know that a priest was here and she not able to 
have him. . . . Do you pray for her. . . .” 

V 

Sunday morning dawned ; the bells pealed out ; the 
crowds went by the church and came back to dinner; and 
yet no word had come to the inn. Robin scarcely stirred 
out all that day for fear a summons should come and he 
miss it. He feigned a little illness and sat wrapped up 
in the corner window of the parlour upstairs, whence he 
could command both roads — that which led to the Castle, 
and that which led to the bridge over which Mr. Beale 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


347 


must come. He considered it prudent also to do this^ be- 
cause of the fellow of whom Merton had told him — a man 
that looked like a groom, and who was lent, he heard, with 
one or two others by his master to do service at the Castle. 

Robin’s own plan had been distinct ever since M. de 
Preau had brought him the first message. He bore himself, 
as has been said, assuredly and confidently; and if he were 
questioned would simply have said that he had business con- 
nected with the Castle. This, asserted in a proper tone, 
would probably have its effect. There was so much mys- 
tery, involving such highly-placed personages from the 
Queen of England downwards, that discretion was safer 
than curiosity. 

It was growing towards dark when Robin, after long and 
fruitless staring down the castle road, turned himself to 
the other. The parlour was empty at this hour except for 
himself. 

He saw the group gathering as usual at the entrance to 
the bridge to watch the arrivals from London, who, if 
there were any, generally came about this time. 

Then, as he looked, he saw two horsemen mount the 
further slope of the bridge, and come full into view. 

Now there was nothing whatever about these two persons, 
in outward appearance, to explain the strange effect they 
had upon the priest. They could not possibly be the party 
for which he was watching. Mr. Beale would certainly 
come with a great , company. They were, besides, plainly 
no more than serving-men: one wore some kind of a livery; 
the other, a strongly-built man who sat his horse awk- 
wardly, was in new clothes that did not fit him. They 
rode ordinary hackneys ; and each had luggage strapped be- 
hind his saddle. All this the priest saw as they came up 
the narrow street and halted before the inn door. They 


348 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


might, perhaps, be servants of Mr. Beale; yet that did not 
seem probable as there was no sign of a following party. 
The landlord came out on to the steps beneath; and after 
a word or two, they slipped off their horses wearily, and 
led them round into the court of the inn. 

All this was usual enough; the priest had seen such 
arrivals a dozen times at this very door; yet he felt sick 
as he looked at them. There appeared to him something 
terrible and sinister about them. He had seen the face of 
the liveried servant; but not of the other: this one had 
carried his head low, with his great hat drawn down on his 
head. The priest wondered, too, what they carried in 
their trunks. 

When he went down to supper in the great room of the 
inn, he could not forbear looking round for them. But 
only one was to be seen — the liveried servant who had 
done the talking. 

Robin turned to his neighbour — a lawyer with whom he • 
had spoken a few times. 

“ That is a new livery to me,” he said, nodding towards 
the stranger. 

“That?” said the lawyer. “That? Why, that is the 
livery of Mr. Walsingham. I have seen it in London.” 

Towards the end of supper a stir broke out among the 
servants who sat at the lower end of the room near the 
windows that looked out upon the streets. Two or three 
sprung up from the tables and went to look out. 

“ What is that? ” cried the lawyer. 

“ It is Mr. Beale going past, sir,” answered a voice. 

Robin lifted his eyes with an effort and looked. Even as 
he did so there came a trampling of horses’ hoofs; and 
then, in the light that streamed from the windows, there 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


349 


appeared a company on horseback. They were too far 
away from where he sat, and the lights were too confusing, 
for him to see more than the general crowd that went by- — 
perhaps from a dozen to twenty all told. But by them ran 
the heads of men who had waited at the bridge to see them 
go by; and a murmuring of voices came even through the 
closed windows. It was plain that others besides those who 
were close to her Grace, saw a sinister significance in Mr. 
Beale’s arrival. 


VI 

Robin had hardly reached his room after supper and a 
little dessert in the parlour, before Merton came in. He 
drew his hand out of his breast as he entered, and, with a 
strange look, gave the priest a folded letter. Robin took 
it without a word and read it through. 

After a pause he said to the other: 

“Who were those two men that came before supper.^ 
I saw them ride up.” 

“ There is only one, sir. He is one of Mr. Walsing- 
ham’s men.” 

“ There were two,” said the priest. 

“ I will inquire, sir,” said the young man, looking 
anxiously from the priest’s face to the note and back again. 

Robin noticed it. 

“ It is bad news,” he said shortly. “ I must say no more. 

. . . Will you inquire for me; and come and tell me at 
once.” 

When the young man had gone Robin read the note again 
before destroying it, 

“ I spoke to Sir A. to-day. He will have none of it. He 
seemed highly suspicious when I spoke to him of you. If 
you value your safety more than her Grace’s possible com- 


350 COME RACK! COME ROPE! 

fort, you had best leave at once. In any case, use great 
caution.” 

Then, in a swift, hurried hand there followed a post- 
script : 

“ Mr. B. is just now arrived, and is closeted with Sir A. 
All is over, I think.” 

Ten minutes later Merton came back and found the priest 
still in the same attitude, sitting on the bed. 

“ They will have none of it, sir,” he said. They say 
that one only came, in advance of Mr. Beale.” 

He came a little closer, and Robin could see that he was 
excited. 

“ But you are right, sir, for all their lies. I saw supper 
plates and an empty flagon come down from the stair that 
leads to the little chamber above the kitchen.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


I 

Overhead lay the heavy sky of night-clouds like a curved 
sheet of dark steel, glimmering far away to the left with 
gashes of pale light. In front towered the twin gateway, 
seeming in the gloom to lean forward to its fall. Lights 
shone here and there in the windows, vanished and appeared 
again, flashing themselves back from the invisible water 
beneath. About, behind and on either side, there swayed 
and murmured this huge crowd — invisible in the darkness 
— peasants, gentlemen, clerks, grooms — all on an equality 
at last, awed by a common tragedy into silence, except for 
words exchanged here and there in an undertone, or 
whispered and left unanswered, or sudden murmured 
prayers to a God who hid Himself indeed. Now and 
again, from beyond the veiling walls came the tramp of 
men ; once, three or four brisk notes blown on a horn ; once, 
the sudden rumble of a drum; and once, when the silence 
grew profound, three or four blows of iron on wood. But 
at that the murmur rose into a groan and drowned it 
again. . . . 

So the minutes passed. . . . Since soon after midnight 
the folks had been gathering here. Many had not slept 
all night, ever since the report had run like fire through 
the little town last evening, that the sentence had been de- 
livered to the prisoner. From that time onwards the road 
that led down past the Castle had never been empty. It 
was now moving on to dawn, the late dawn of February; 
and every instant the scene grew more distinct. It was 

351 


352 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


possible for those pushed against the wall, or against the 
chains of the bridge that had been let down an hour ago, 
to look down into the chilly water of the moat; to see not 
the silhouette only of the huge fortress, but the battle- 
ments of the wall, and now and again a steel cap and a 
pike-point pass beyond it as the sentry went to and fro. 
Noises within the Castle grew more frequent. The voice 
of an officer was heard half a dozen times; the rattle of 
pike-butts, the clash of steel. The melancholy bray of 
the horn-blower ran up a minor scale and down again; the 
dub-dub of a drum rang out, and was thrown back in 
throbs by the encircling walls. The galloping of horses 
was heard three or four times as a late-comer tore up the 
village street and was forced to halt far away on the out- 
skirts of the crowd — some country squire, maybe, to whom 
the amazing news had come an hour ago. Still there was 
no movement of the great doors across the bridge. The 
men on guard there shifted their positions; nodded a word 
or two across to one another; changed their pikes from one 
hand to the other. It seemed as if day would come and 
find the affair no further advanced. . . . 

Then, without warning (for so do great climaxes always 
come), the doors wheeled back on their hinges, disclosing 
a line of pikemen drawn up under the vaulted entrance; a 
sharp command was uttered by an officer at their head, 
causing the two sentries to advance across the bridge; a 
great roaring howl rose from the surging crowd; and in 
an instant the whole lane was in confusion. Robin felt 
himself pushed this way and that; he struggled violently, 
driving his elbows right and left; was lifted for a moment 
clean from his feet by the pressure about him; slipped 
down again; gained a yard or two; lost them; gained three 
or four in a sudden swirl; and immediately found his feet 
on wood instead of earth; and himself racing desperately 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 353 

in a loose group of runners, across the bridge; and beneath 
the arch of the castle-gate. 


II 

When he was able to take breath again, and to substitute 
thought for blind instinct, he found himself tramping in 
a kind of stream of men into what appeared an impene- 
trably packed crowd. He was going between ropes, how- 
ever, which formed a lane up which it was possible to move. 
This lane, after crossing half the court, wheeled suddenly 
to one side and doubled on itself, conducting the new- 
comers behind the crowd of privileged persons that had 
come into the castle overnight, or had been admitted three 
or four hours ago. These persons were all people of qual- 
ity; many of them, out of a kind of sympathy for what 
was to happen, were in black. They stood there in rows, 
scarcely moving, scarcely speaking, some even bare-headed, 
filling up now, so far as the priest could see, the entire 
court, except in that quarter in which he presently found 
himself — the furthest corner away from where rose up the 
tall carved and traceried windows of the banqueting-hall. 
Yet, though no man spoke above an undertone, a steady 
low murmur filled the court from side to side, like the 
sound of a wagon rolling over a paved road. 

He reached his place at last, actually against the wall of 
the soldiers’ lodgings, and found, presently, that a low 
row of projecting stones enabled him to raise himself a few 
inches, and see, at any rate, a little better than his neigh- 
bours. He had perceived one thing instantly — namely, 
that his dream of getting near enough to the Queen to give 
her absolution before her death was an impossible one. 
He had known since yesterday that the execution was to 
take place in the hall, and here was he, within the court 


354i 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


certainly^ yet as far as possible away from where he most 
desired to be. 

The last two days had gone by in a horror that there is 
no describing. All the hours of them he had passed at his 
parlour window, waiting hopelessly for the summons which 
never came. John Merton had gone to the castle and come 
back, each time with more desolate news. There was not 
a possibility, he said, when the news was finally certified, 
of getting a place in the hall. Three hundred gentlemen 
had had those places already assigned; four or five hun- 
dred more, it was expected, would have space reserved for 
them in the courtyard. * The only possibility was to be early 
at the gateway, since a limited number of these would 
probably be admitted an hour or so before the time fixed 
for the execution. 

The priest had seen many sights from his parlour win- 
dow during those two days. 

On Monday he had seen, early in the morning, Mr. 
Beale ride out with his men to go to my lord Shrewsbury, 
who was in the neighbourhood, and had seen him return in 
time for dinner, with a number of strangers, among whom 
was an ecclesiastic. On inquiry, he found this to be Dr. 
Fletcher, Dean of Peterborough, who had been appointed 
to attend Mary both in her lodgings and upon the scaffold. 
In the afternoon the street was not empty for half an hour. 
From all sides poured in horsemen; gentlemen riding in 
with their servants; yeomen and farmers come in from the 
countryside, that they might say hereafter that they had at 
least been in Fotheringay when a Queen suffered the death 
of the axe. So the dark had fallen, yet lights moved about 
continually, and horses’ hoofs never ceased to beat or the 
voices of men to talk. Until he fell asleep at last in his 
v/indow-seat, he listened always to these things; watched 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


355 


the lights ; prayed softly to himself ; clenched his nails into 
his hands for indignation ; and looked again. On the Tues- 
day morning came the sheriff, to dine at the castle with 
Sir Amyas — a great figure of a man, dignified and stal- 
wart, riding in the midst of his men. After dinner came 
the Earl of Kent, and, last of all, my lord Shrewsbury 
himself — he who had been her Grace’s gaoler, until he 
proved too kind for Elizabeth’s taste — now appointed, with 
peculiar malice, to assist at her execution. He looked pale 
and dejected as he rode past beneath the window. 

Yet all this time the supreme horror had been that the 
end was not absolutely certain. All in Fotheringay were 
as convinced as men could be, who had not seen the war- 
rant nor heard it read, that Mr. Beale had brought it with 
him on Sunday night; the priest, above all, from his com- 
munications with Mr. Bourgoign, was morally certain that 
the terror was come at last. ... It was not until the last 
night of Mary’s life on earth was beginning to close in that 
John Merton came up to the parlour, white and terrified, 
to tell him that he had been in his master’s room half an 
hour ago, and that Mr. Melville had come in to them, his 
face all slobbered with tears, and had told him that he 
had but just come from her Grace’s rooms, and had heard 
with his own ears the sentence read to her, and her gal- 
lant and noble answer. . . . He had bidden him to go 
straight off to the priest, with a message from Mr. Bour- 
goign and himself, to the effect that the execution was ap- 
pointed for eight o’clock next morning; and that he was 
to be at the gate of the castle not later than three o’clock, 
if, by good fortune, he might be admitted when the gates 
were opened at seven. 


356 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Ill 

And now that the priest was in his place, he began again 
to think over that answer of the Queen. The very words of 
it, indeed, he did not know for a month or two later, when 
Mr. Bourgoign wrote to him at length; but this, at least, 
he knew, that her Grace had said (and no man contradicted 
her at that time) that she would shed her blood to-morrow 
with all the happiness in the world, since it was for the 
cause of the Catholic and Roman Church that she died. 
It was not for any plot that she was to die: she professed 
again, kissing her Bible as she did so, that she was utterly 
guiltless of any plot against her sister. She died because 
she was of that Faith in which she had been born, and 
which Elizabeth had repudiated. As for death, she did 
not fear it; she had looked for it during all the eighteen 
years of her imprisonment. 

It was at a martyrdom, then, that he was to assist. . . . 
He had known that, without a doubt, ever since the day 
that Mary had declared her innocence at Chartley. There 
had been no possibility of thinking otherwise; and, as he 
reflected on this, he remembered that he, too, was guilty 
of the same crime; . . . and he wondered whether he, too, 
would die as manfully, if the need for it ever came. 

Then, in an instant, he was called back, by the sudden 
crash of horns and drums playing all together. He saw 
again the ranks of heads before him: the great arched 
windows of the hall on the other side of the court, the grim 
dominating keep, and the merciless February morning sky 
over all. 

It was impossible to tell what was going on. 

On all sides of him men jostled and murmured aloud. 
One said, “ She is coming down ” ; another, “ It is all 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


357 


over ” ; another, “ They have awakened her.” “ What is 
it.^ what is it.^ ” whispered Robin to the air, watching waves 
of movement pass over the serried heads before him. The 
lights were still burning here and there in the windows, 
and the tall panes of the hall were all aglow, as if a great 
fire burned within. Overhead the sky had turned to day- 
light at last, but they were grey clouds that filled the 
heavens so far as he could see. Meanwhile, the horns 
brayed in unison, a rough melody like the notes of bugles, 
and the drums beat out the time. 

Again there was a long pause — in which the lapse of 
time was incalculable. Time had no meaning here: men 
waited from incident to incident only — the moving of a line 
of steel caps, a pause in the music, a head thrust out from 
a closed window and drawn back again. . . . Again the 
music broke out, and this time it was an air that they played 
— a lilting melancholy melody, that the priest recognised, 
yet could not identify. Men laughed subduedly near him; 
he saw a face wrinkled with bitter mirth turned back, and 
he heard what was said. It was “ Jumping Joan ” that 
was being played — the march consecrated to the burning 
of witches. He had heard it long ago, as a boy. . . . 

Then the rumour ran through the crowd, and spent itself 
at last in the corner where the priest stood trembling with 
wrath and pity. 

“ She is in the hall.” 

It was impossible to know whether this were true, or 
whether she had not been there half an hour already. The 
horror was that all might be over, or not yet begun, or in 
the very act of doing. He had thought that there would 
be some pause or warning — that a signal would be given, 
perhaps, that all might bare their heads or pray, at this 
violent passing of a Queen. But there was none. The 
heads surged and quieted; murmurs burst out and died 


358 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


again; and all the while the hateful, insolent melody rose 
and fell; the horns bellowed; the drums crashed. It 
sounded like some shocking dance-measure; a riot of des- 
perate spirits moved in it, trampling up and down, as if in 
one last fling of devilish gaiety. . . . 

Then suddenly the heads grew still; a wave of motion- 
lessness passed over them, as if some strange sympathy 
were communicated from within those tall windows. The 
moments passed and passed. It was impossible to hear 
those murmurs, through the blare of the instruments ; there 
was one sound only that could penetrate them; and this, 
rising from what seemed at first the wailing of a child, grew 
and grew into the shrill cries of a dog in agony. At the 
noise once more a roar of low questioning surged up and 
fell. Simultaneously the music came to an abrupt close; 
and, as if at a signal, there sounded a great roar of voices, 
all shouting together within the hall. It rose yet louder, 
broke out of doors, and was taken up by those outside. 
The court was now one sea of tossing heads and open 
mouths shouting — as if in exultation or in anger. Robin 
fought for his place on the projecting stones, clung to the 
rough wall, gripped a window-bar and drew himself yet 
higher. 

Then, as he clenched himself tight and stared out again 
towards the tall windows that shone in bloody flakes of 
fire from the roaring logs within; a sudden and profound 
silence fell once more before being shattered again by a 
thousand roaring throats. . . . 

For there, in full view beyond the clear glass stood a 
tall, black figure, masked to the mouth, who held in his out- 
stretched hands a wide silver dish, in which lay something 
white and round and slashed with crimson. . . . 


PART IV 



CHAPTER I 


I 

“ There is no more to be said, then/* said Marjorie, and 
leaned back, with a white, exhausted face. “ We can do no 
more.’* 

It was a little council of Papists that was gathered — a 
year after the Queen’s death at Fotheringay — in Mistress 
Manners’ parlour. Mr. John FitzHerbert was there; he 
had ridden up an hour before with heavy news from Pad- 
ley and its messenger. Mistress Alice was there, quiet 
as ever, yet paler and thinner than in former years (Mis- 
tress Bahington herself had gone back to her family last 
year). And, last, Robin himself was there, having himself 
borne the news from Derby. 

He had had an eventful year, yet never yet had he come 
within reach of the pursuivant. But he had largely effected 
this by the particular care which he had observed with 
regard to Matstead, and his silence as to his own identity. 
Extraordinary care, too, was observed by his friends, who 
had learned by now to call him even in private by his 
alias; and it appeared certain that beyond a dozen or two 
of discreet persons it was utterly unsuspected that the 
stately bearded young gentleman named Mr. Robert Alban 
— the “ mail of God,” as, like other priests, he was com- 
monly called amongst the Catholics — had any connection 
whatever with the hawking, hunting, and hard-riding lover 
of Mistress Manners. It was known, indeed, that Mr. 
Robin had gone abroad years ago to be made priest; but 
those who thought of him at all, or, at least as returned, 

361 


362 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


believed him sent to some other part of England^ for the 
sake of his father, and it was partly because of the very 
fact that his father was so hot against the Papists that it 
had been thought safe at Rheims to send him to Derby- 
shire, since this would be the very last place in which he 
would be looked for. 

He had avoided Matstead then — riding through it once 
only by night, with strange emotions — and had spent most 
of his time in the south of Derbyshire, crossing more than 
once over into Stafford and Chester, and returning to Pad- 
ley or to Booth’s Edge once in every three or four months. 
He had learned a hundred lessons in these wanderings 
of his. 

The news that he had now brought with him was of the 
worst. He had heard from Catholics in Derby that Mr. 
Simpson, returned again after his banishment, recaptured 
a month or two ago, and awaiting trial at the Lent Assizes, 
was beginning to falter. Death was a certainty for him 
this time, and it appeared that he had seemed very tim- 
orous before two or three friends who had visited him in 
gaol, declaring that he had done all that a man could do, 
that he was being worn out by suffering and privation, 
and that there was some limit, after all, to what God 
Almighty should demand. 

Marjorie had cried out just now, driven beyond herself 
at the thought of what all this must mean for the Catho- 
lics of the countryside, many of whom already had fallen 
away during the last year or two beneath the pitiless storm 
of fines, suspicions, and threats — had cried out that it was 
impossible that such a man as Mr. Simpson could fall; that 
the ruin it would bring upon the Faith must be propor- 
tionate to the influence he already had won throughout the 
country by his years of labour; entreating, finally, when 
the trustworthiness of the report had been forced upon 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! S63 

her at last, that she herself might be allowed to go and 
see him and speak with him in prison. 

This, however, had been strongly refused by her coun- 
sellors just now. They had declared that her help was 
invaluable; that the amazing manner in which her little 
retired house on the moors had so far evaded grave suspi- 
cion rendered it one of the greatest safeguards that the 
hunted Catholics possessed ; that the work she was doing by 
her organization of messengers and letters must not be 
risked, even for the sake of a matter like this. . . . 

She had given in at last. But her spirit seemed broken 
altogether. 

II 

“ There is one more matter,” said Robin presently, un- 
crossing one splashed leg from over the other. “ I had not 
thought to speak of it; but I think it best now to do so. 
It concerns myself a little; and, therefore, if I may flatter 
myself, it concerns my friends, too.” 

He smiled genially upon the company; for if there was 
one thing more than another he had learned in his travels, 
it was that the tragic air never yet helped any man. 

Marjorie lifted her eyes a moment. 

” Mistress Manners,” he said, “ you remember my speak- 
ing to you after Fotheringay, of a fellow of my lord 
Shrewsbury’s who honoured me with his suspicions } ” 

She nodded. 

“ I have never set eyes on him from that day to this — 
to this,” he added. “ And this morning in the open street 
in Derby whom should I meet with but young Merton and 
his father. (Her Grace’s servants have suffered horribly 
since last year. But that is a tale for another day.) Well: 
I stopped to speak with these two. The young man hath 
left Mr. Melville’s service a while back, it seems ; and is to 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


S64> 

try his fortune in France. Well; we were speaking of 
this and that, when who should come by but a party of men 
and my lord Shrewsbury in the midst, riding with Mr. 
Roger Columbell; and immediately behind them my friend 
of the ‘ New Inn ’ of Fotheringay. It was all the ill-for- 
tune in the world that it should be at such moment; if 
he had seen me alone he would have thought no more of 
me; but seeing me with young Jack Merton, he looked 
from one to the other. And I will stake my hat he knew 
me again.’* 

Marjorie was looking full at him now. 

“ What was my lord Shrewsbury doing in Derby with 
Mr. Columbell?” mused Mr. John, biting his moustaches. 

“ It was the very question I put to myself,” said Robin. 
“ And I took the liberty of seeing where they went. They 
went to Mr. Columbell’s own house, and indoors of it. The 
serving-men held the horses at the door. I watched them 
awhile from Mr. Riddell’s window; but they were still 
there when I came away at last.” 

“ What hour was that? ” asked the old man. 

“That would be after dinner-time. I had dined early; 
and I met them afterwards. My lord would surely be 
dining with Mr. Columbell. But that is no answer to my 
question. It rather pierces down to the further point. Why 
was my lord Shrewsbury dining with Mr. Columbell? 
Shrewsbury is a great lord ; Mr. Columbell is a little magis- 
trate. My lord hath his own house in the country, and 
there be good inns in Derby.” 

He stopped short. 

“ What is the matter. Mistress Manners? ” he asked. 

“What of yourself?” she said sharply; “you were 
speaking of yourself.” 

Robin laughed. 

“ I had forgotten myself for once ! . . . Why, yes ; I 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


365 


intended to ask the company what I had best do. What 
with this news of Mr. Simpson, and the report Mistress 
Manners gives us of the country-folk, a poor priest must 
look to himself in these days; and not for his own sake 
only. Now, my lord Shrewsbury’s man knows nothing of 
me except that I had strange business at Fotheringay a 
year ago. But to have had strange business at Fotheringay 
a year ago is a suspicious circumstance; and ” 

“ Mr. Alban,” broke in the old man, “ you had best do 
nothing at all. You were not followed from Derby; you 
are as safe in Padley or here as you could be anywhere in 
England. All that you had best do is to remain here a 
week or two and not go down to Derby again for the pres- 
ent. I think that showing of yourself openly in towns 
hath its dangers as well as its safeguards.” 

Mr. John glanced round. Marjorie bowed her head in 
assent. 

“ I will do precisely as you say,” said Robin easily. 
“ And now for the news of her Grace’s servants.” 

He had already again and again told the tale of Fother- 
ingay so far as he had seen it in this very parlour. At 
first he had hardly found himself able to speak of it with- 
out tears. He had described the scene he had looked upon 
when, in the rush that had been made towards the hall 
after Mary’s head had been shown at the window, he had 
found a place, and had been forced along, partly with his 
will and partly against it, right through the great doors 
into the very place where the Queen had suffered; and he 
had told the story so well that his listeners had seemed to 
see it for themselves — the great hall hung with black 
throughout ; the raised scaffold at the further end beside the 
fire that blazed on the wide hearth; the Queen’s servants 
being led away half-swooning as he came in; the dress of 
velvet, the straw and the bloody sawdust, the beads and 


366 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


all the other pitiful relics being heaped upon the fire as 
he stood there in the struggling mob; and_, above all, the 
fallen body, in its short skirt and bodice lying there where 
it fell beside the low, black block. He had told all this 
as he had seen it for himself, until the sheriff’s men drove 
them all forth again into the court; and he had told, too, of 
all that he had heard afterwards, that had happened until 
my lord Shrewsbury’s son had ridden out at a gallop to take 
the news to court, and the imprisoned watchers had been 
allowed to leave the Castle; how the little dog, that he had 
heard wailing, had leapt out as the head fell at the third 
stroke, so that he was all bathed in his mistress’ blood — 
one of the very spaniels, no doubt, which he himself had 
seen at Chartley; how the dog was taken away and washed 
and given afterwards into Mr. Melville’s charge; how the 
body and the head had been taken upstairs, had been 
roughly embalmed, and laid in a locked chamber; how her 
servants had been found peeping through the keyhole and 
praying aloud there, till Sir Amyas had had the hole 
stopped up. He had told them, too, of the events that 
followed; of the mass M. de Preau had been permitted to 
say in the Queen’s oratory on the morning after ; and of the 
oath that he had been forced to take that he would not say 
it again; of the destruction of the oratory and the con- 
fiscation of the altar furniture and vestments. 

All this he had told, little by little; and of the Queen’s 
noble bearing upon the scaffold, her utter fearlessness, her 
protestations that she died for her religion and for that 
only, and of the pesterings of Dr. Fletcher, Dean of Peter- 
borough, who had at last given over in despair, and prayed 
instead. The rest they knew for themselves — of the miser- 
able falseness of Elizabeth, who feigned, after having 
signed the warrant and sent it, that it was Mr. Davison’s 
fault for doing as she told him; and of her accusations 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


S67 


(accusations that deceived no man) against those who had 
served her; of the fires made in the streets of all great 
towns as a mark of official rejoicing over Mary’s death; 
and of the pitiful restitution made by the great funeral in 
Peterborough, six months after, and the royal escutcheons 
and the tapers and the hearse, and all the rest of the lying 
pretences by which the murderess sought to absolve her vic- 
tim from the crime of being murdered. Well; it was all 
over. . . . 

And now he told them of what he had heard to-day from 
young Merton in Derby; of how Nau, Mary’s French sec- 
retary — the one who had served her for eleven years and 
had been loaded by her kindness — had been rewarded also 
by Elizabeth, and that the nature of his services was un- 
mistakable; while all the rest of them, who had refused 
utterly to take any part in the insolent mourning at Peter- 
borough, either in the Cathedral or at the banquet, had 
fallen under her Grace’s displeasure, so that some of them, 
even now, were scarcely out of ward, Mr. Bourgoign alone 
excepted, since he was allowed to take the news of the 
death to their Graces of France, and had, most wisely, 
remained there ever since. 

So the party sat round the fire in the same little parlour 
where they had sat so often before, with the lutes and 
wreaths embroidered on the hangings and Icarus in the 
chariot of the sun; and Robin, after telling his tale, an- 
swered question after question, till silence fell, and all sat 
motionless, thinking of the woman who, while dead, yet 
spoke. 

Then Mr. John stood up, clapped the priest on the back, 
and said that they two must be off to Padley for the night. 


368 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


Ill 

They had all risen to their feet when a knocking came on 
the door, and Janet looked in. She seemed a little per- 
turbed. 

“If you please, sir,” she said to Mr. John, “ one of your 
men is come up from Padley; and wishes to speak to you 
alone.” 

Mr. John gave a quick glance at the others. 

“ If you will allow me,” he said, “ I will go down and 
speak with him in the hall.” 

The rest sat down again. It was the kind of interrup- 
tion that might be wholly innocent; yet, coming when it 
did, it affected them a little. There seemed to be nothing 
but bad news everywhere. 

The minutes passed, yet no one returned. Once Marjorie 
went to the door and listened, but there was only the faint 
wail of the winter wind up the stairs to be heard. Then, 
five minutes later, there were steps and Mr. John came in. 
His face looked a little stern, but he smiled with his mouth. 

“ We poor Papists are in trouble again,” he said. “ Mis- 
tress Manners, you must let us stay here all night, if you 
will; and we will be off early in the morning. There is a 
party coming to us from Derby — to-morrow or next day: 
it is not known which.” 

“Why, yes! And what party?” said Marjorie, quietly 
enough, though she must have guessed its character. The 
smile left his mouth. 

“ It is my son that is behind it,” he said. “ I had won- 
dered we had not had news of him ! There is to be a gen- 
eral search for seminarists in the High Peak ” ( he glanced 
at Robin), “ by order of my lord Shrewsbury. Your name- 
sake, mistress, Mr. John Manners, and our friend Mr. 
Columbell, are commissioned to search; and Mr. Fenton 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


S69 


and myself are singled out to be apprehended immediately. 
Thomas knows that I am at Padley, and that Mr. Eyre will 
come in there for Candlemas, the day after to-morrow; in 
that I recognize my son’s knowledge. Well, I will dis- 
patch my man who brought the news to Mr. Eyre to bid 
him to avoid the place; and we two, Mr. Alban and myself, 
will make our way across the border into Stafford.” 

“ There are none others coming to Padley to-morrow.^ ” 
asked Marjorie. 

“ None that I know of. They will come in sometimes 
without warning; but I cannot help that. Mr. Fenton will 
be at Tansley: he told me so.” 

“How did the news come.^” asked Robin. 

“ It seems that the preacher Walton, in Derby, hath been 
warned that we shall be delivered to him two days hence. 
It was his servant that told one of mine. I fear he will be 
a-preparing his sermons to us, all for nothing.” 

He smiled bitterly again. Robin could see the misery in 
this man’s heart at the thought that it was his own son 
who had contrived this. Mr. Thomas had been quiet for 
many months, no doubt in order to strike the more surely 
in his new function as “ sworn man ” of her Grace. Yet 
he would seem to have failed. 

“ We shall not get our candles then, this year either,” 
smiled Mr. Thomas. “ Lanterns are all that we shall 
have.” 

There was not much time to be lost. Luggage had to be 
packed, since it would not be safe for the three to return 
until at least two or three weeks had passed; and Marjorie, 
besides, had to prepare a list of places and names that must 
be dealt with on their way — places where word must be left 
that the hunt was up again, and names of particular per- 
sons that were to be warned. Mr. Garlick and Mr. Lud- 


370 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


lam were in the county, and these must be specially in- 
formed, since they were known, and Mr. Garlick in par- 
ticular had already suffered banishment and returned again, 
so that there would be no hope for him if he were once more 
captured. 

The four sat late that night; and Robin wondered more 
than ever, not only at the self-command of the girl, but at 
her extraordinary knowledge of Catholic affairs in the 
county. She calculated, almost without mistake, as was 
afterwards shown, not only which priests were in Derby- 
shire, but within a very few miles of where they would be 
and at what time: she showed, half -smiling, a kind of 
chart which she had drawn up, of the movements of the 
persons concerned, explaining the plan by which each 
priest (if he desired) might go on his own circuit where 
he would be most needed. She lamented, however, the 
fewness of the priests, and attributed to this the growing 
laxity of many families — living, it might be, in upland farms 
or in inaccessible places, where they could but very seldom 
have the visits of the priest and the strength of the sacra- 
ments. 

Before midnight, therefore, the two travellers had com- 
plete directions for their journey, as wxll as papers to help 
their memories, as to where the news was to be left. And at 
last Mr. John stood up and stretched himself. 

“ We must go to bed,” he said. “ We must be booted by 
five.” 

Mar j orie nodded to Alice, who stood up, saying she would 
show him where his bed had been prepared. 

Robin lingered for a moment to finish his last notes. 

“ Mr. Alban,” said Marjorie suddenly, without lifting 
her eyes from the paper on which she wrote. 

“ Yes?” 

You will take care to-morrow, will you not? ” she said. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


371 


** Mr. John is a little hot-headed. You must keep him to 
his route ? ” 

“ I will do my best/’ said Robm_, smiling. 

She lifted her clear eyes to his without tremor or shame. 

“My heart would be broken altogether if aught happened 
to you. I look to you as our Lord’s chief soldier in this 
county.” 

“ But ” 

“ That is so/* she said. “ I do not know any man who 
has been made perfect in so short a time. You hold us all 
in your hands.” 


CHAPTER II 


I 

It was in Mr. Bassett’s house at Langley that the news 
of the attack on Padley reached the two travellers a month 
later, and it bore news in it that they little expected. 

For it seemed that, entirely unexpectedly, there had 
arrived at Padley the following night no less than three of 
the FitzHerbert family, Mr. Anthony the seventh son, with 
two of his sisters, as well as Thomas FitzHerbert’s wife, 
who rode with them, whether as a spy or not was never 
known. Further, Mr. Fenton himself, hearing of their 
coming, had ridden up from Tansley, and missed the mes- 
senger that Marjorie had sent out. They had not arrived 
till late, missing again, by a series of mischances, the 
scouts Marjorie had posted; and, on discovering their 
danger, had further discovered the house to be already 
watched. They judged it better, therefore, as Marjorie 
said in her letter, to feign unconsciousness of any charge 
against them, since there was no priest in the house who 
could incriminate them. 

All this the travellers learned for the first time at Lang- 
ley. 

They had gone through into Staffordshire, as had been 
arranged, and there had moved about from house to house 
of Catholic friends without any trouble. It was when at 
last they thought it safe to be moving homewards, and had 
arrived at Langley, that they found Marjorie’s letter await- 
ing them. It was addressed to Mr. John FitzHerbert and 
was brought by Robin’s old servant, Dick Sampson. 

372 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


373 


“The assault was made/’ wrote Marjorie, “according 
to the arrangement. Mr. Columbell himself came with a 
score of men and surrounded the house very early, having 
set watchers all in place the evening before: they had 
made certain they should catch the master and at least 
a priest or two. But I have very heavy news, for all that; 
for there had come to the house after dark Mr. Anthony 
FitzHerbert, with two of his sisters, Mrs. Thomas Fitz- 
Herbert and Mr. Fenton himself, and they have carried the 
two gentlemen to the Derby gaol. I have had no word from 
Mr. Anthony, but I hear that he said that he was glad that 
his father was not taken, and that his own taking he puts 
down to his brother’s account, as yourself, sir, also did. 
The men did no great harm in Padley beyond breaking a 
panel or two: they were too careful, I suppose, of what 
they think will be Mr. Topcliffe’s property some day ! And 
they found none of the hiding-holes, which is good news. 
The rest of the party they let go free again for the 
present. 

“ I have another piece of bad news, too — which is no 
more than what we had looked for: that Mr. Simpson at 
the Assizes was condemned to death, but has promised to 
go to church, so that his life is spared if he will do so. He 
is still in the gaol, however, where I pray God that Mr. 
Anthony may meet with him and bring him to a better 
mind; so that he hath not yet denied our Lord, even 
though he hath promised to do so. 

“ May God comfort and console you, Mr. FitzHerbert, 
for this news of Mr. Anthony that 1 send.” 

The letter ended with messages to the party, with in- 
structions for their way of return if they should come within 
the next week; and with the explanation, given above, of 
the series of misfortunes by which any came to be at Pad- 


374 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


ley that night, and how it was that they did not attempt 
to break out again. 

The capture of Mr. Anthony was, indeed, one more blow 
to his father; but Robin was astonished how cheerfully he 
bore it; and said as much when they two were alone in the 
garden. 

The grey old man smiled, while his eyelids twitched a 
little. 

“ They say that when a man is whipped he feels no more 
after awhile. The former blows prepare him and dull his 
nerves for the later, which, I take it, is part of God’s mercy. 
Well, Mr. Alban, my father hath been in prison a great 
while now; my son Thomas is a traitor, and a sworn man 
of her Grace; I myself have been fined and persecuted till 
I have had to sell land to pay the fines with. I have seen 
family after family fall from their faith and deny it. So 
I take it that I feel the joy that I have a son who is ready 
to suffer for it, more than the pain I have in thinking on 
his sufferings. The one may perhaps atone for the sins 
of the other, and yet help him to repentance.” 

Life here at Langley was more encouraging than the fur- 
tive existence necessary in the north of Derbyshire. 

Mr. Bassett had a confident way with him that was like 
wine to fainting hearts, and he had every reason to be con- 
fident; since up to the present, beyond being forced to pay 
the usual fines for recusancy, he had scarcely been troubled 
at all; and lived in considerable prosperity, having even 
been sheriff of Stafford in virtue of his other estates at 
Blore. His house at Langley was a great one, standing in 
a park, and showing no signs of poverty; his servants were 
largely Catholic; he entertained priests and refugees of all 
kinds freely, although discreetly; and he laughed at the 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 375 

notion that the persecution could be of long endur- 
ance. 

The very first night the travellers had come he had 
spoken with considerable freedom after supper. 

“ Look more hearty ! ” he cried. “ The Spanish fleet 
will be here before summer to relieve us of all troubles, 
as of all heretics, too. Her Grace will have to turn her 
coat once more, I think, when that comes to pass.’" 

Mr. John glanced at him doubtfully. 

“ First,” he said, no man knows whether it will come. 
And, next, I for one am not sure if I even wish for it.” 

Mr. Bassett laughed loudly. 

“ You will dance for joy ! ” he said. “ And why do you 
not know whether you wish it to come.^ ” 

“ I have no taste to be a Spanish subject.” 

“ Why, nor have I ! But the King of Spain will but sail 
away again when he hath made terms against the priva- 
teers, whether they be those that ply on the high seas 
against men’s bodies, or here in England against their souls. 
There will be no subjection of England beyond that.” 

Mr. John was silent. 

“ Why, I heard from Sir Thomas but a week ago, to 
ask for a little money to pay his fines with. He said that 
repayment should follow so soon as the fleet should come. 
Those were his very words.” 

“ You sent the money, then? ” 

“ Why, yes ; I made shift that a servant should throw 
down a bag with ten pounds in it, into a bush, and that 
Brittlebank — your brother’s man — should see him do it! 
And lo ! when we looked again, the bag was gone ! ” 

He laughed again with open mouth. Certainly he was 
an inspiriting man with a loud bark of his own; but Robin 
imagined that he would not bite too cruelly for all that. 
But he saw another side of him presently. 


376 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ What was that matter of Mr. Sutton, the priest who 
was executed in Stafford last year? asked Mr. John sud- 
denly. 

The face of the other changed as abruptly. His eyes 
became pin-points under his grey eyebrows and his mouth 
tightened. 

“ What of him? ” he said. 

“ It was reported that you might have stayed the 
execution, and would not. I did not believe a word 
of it.’' 

“ It is true,” said Mr. Bassett sharply — at least a por- 
tion of it.” 

“ True?” 

Listen,” cried the other suddenly, ” and tell me what 
you would have done. Mr. Sutton was taken, and was 
banished, and came back again, as any worthy priest would 
do. Then he was taken again, and condemned. I did my 
utmost to save him, but I could not. Then, as I would 
never have any part in the death of a priest for his religion, 
another was appointed to carry the execution through. 
Three days before news was brought to me by a private 
hand that Mr. Sutton had promised to give the names of 
priests whom he knew, and of houses where he had said 
mass, and I know not what else ; and it was said to me that 
I might on this account stay the execution until he had told 
all that he could. Now I knew that I could not save his 
life altogether; that was forfeited and there could be no 
forgiveness. All that I might do was to respite him for a 
little — and for what? That he might damn his own soul 
eternally and bring a great number of good men into trouble 
and peril of death for themselves. I sent the messenger 
away again, and said that I would listen to no such tales. 
And Mr. Sutton died like a good priest three days after, 
repenting, I doubt not, bitterly, of the weakness into which 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 377 

he had fallen. Now, sir, what would you have done in my 
place.? 

He wagged his face fiercely from side to side. 

Mr. John put his hand over his eyes and nodded without 
speaking. Robin sat silent: it was not only for priests, 
it seemed, that life presented a tangle. 

II 

The evening before the two left for the north again, Mr. 
Bassett took them both into his own study. It was a little 
room opening out of his bedroom, and was more full of 
books than Robin had ever seen, except in the library at 
Rheims, in any room in the world. A shelf ran round the 
room, high on the wall, and was piled with manuscripts to 
the ceiling. Beneath, the book-shelves that ran nearly 
round the room were packed with volumes, and a number 
more lay on the table and even in the corners. 

“ This is my own privy chamber,” said Mr. Bassett to 
the priest. “ My other friends have seen it many a time, 
but I thought I would show it to your Reverence, too.” 

Robin looked round him in wonder: he had no idea that 
his host was a man of such learning. 

“ All the books are ranged in their proper places,” went 
on the other. “ I could put my finger on any of them blind- 
fold. But this is the shelf I wished you to see.” 

He took him to one that was behind the door, holding up 
the candle that he might see. The shelf had a box or two 
on it, besides books, and these he opened and set on the 
table. Robin looked in, as he was told, but could under- 
stand nothing that he saw: in one was a round ball of 
crystal on a little gold stand, wrapped round in velvet; in 
another some kind of a machine with wheels; in a third, 
some dried substances, as of herbs, tied together with silk. 


378 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


He inspected them gravely, but was not invited to touch 
them. Then his host touched him on the breast with one 
finger, and recoiled, smiling. 

“ This is my magic,” he said. “ John here does not like 
it; neither did poor Mr. Fenton when he was here; but I 
hold there is no harm in such things if one does but observe 
caution.” 

“ What do you do with them, sir ? ” inquired the priest 
curiously, for he was not sure whether the man was serious. 

“ Well, sir, I hold that God has written His will in the 
stars, and in the burning of herbs, and in the shining of the 
sun, and such things. There is no black magic here. But, 
just as we read in the sky at morning, if it be red or yel- 
low, whether it will be foul or fair, so I hold that God has 
written other secrets of His in other things; and that by 
observing them and judging rightly we may guess what He 
has in store. I knew that a prince was to die last year 
before ever it happened. I knew that a fleet of ships will 
come to England this year, before ever an anchor is 
weighed. And I would have you notice that here are Mr. 
FitzHerbert and your Reverence, too, fleeing for your lives; 
and here sit I safe at home; and all, as I hold, because I 
have been able to observe by my magic what is to come to 
pass.” 

“ But that strikes at the doctrine of free-will,” cried the 
priest. 

“No, sir; I think it does not. God’s foreknowledge 
doth not hinder the use of our free-will (which is a mys- 
tery, no doubt, yet none the less true). Then why should 
God’s foreknowledge any more hinder our free-will, when 
He chooses to communicate it to us?” 

Robin was silent. He knew little or nothing of these 
things, except from his theological reading. Yet he felt 
uneasy. The other said nothing. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


379 


And the stars, too ? ” he asked. 

“ I hold/’ said Mr. Bassett, “ that the stars have certain 
influences and powers upon those that are born under their 
signs. I do not hold that we are so ruled by these that we 
have no action of our own, any more than we are compelled 
to be wet through by rain or scorched by the sun: we may 
always come into a house or shelter beneath a tree, and 
thus escape them. So, too, I hold, with the stars. There 
is an old saying, sir : ‘ The fool is ruled by his stars ; the 
wise man rules them.’ That is, in a nutshell, my faith in 
the matter. I have told Mr. Fenton’s fortune here, and 
Mr. FitzHerbert’s, only they will never listen to me.” 

Robin looked round the room. It was dark outside long 
ago; they had supped at sunset, and sat for half an hour 
over their banquet of sweetmeats and wine before coming 
upstairs. And the room, too, was as dark as night, except 
where far off in the west, beyond the tall trees of the 
park, a few red streaks lingered. He felt oppressed and 
miserable. The place seemed to him sinister. He hated 
these fumblings at locks that were surely meant to remain 
closed. Yet he did not know what to say. Mr. John had 
wandered off to one of the windows and was humming un- 
easily to himself. 

Then, suddenly, an intense curiosity overcame him. 

His life was a strange and perilous one; he carried it in 
his hand every day. In the morning he could not be sure 
but that he would be fleeing before evening. As he fell 
asleep, he could not be sure that he would not be awakened 
to a new dream. He had long ago conquered those moods 
of terror which, in spite of his courage, had come down on 
him sometimes, in some lonely farm, perhaps, where flight 
would be impossible — or, in what was far more dangerous, 
in some crowded inn where every movement was known — • 
these had passed, he thought, never to come back, 


380 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


But in that little book-lined room, with these curious 
things in boxes on the table, and his merry host peering at 
him gravely, and the still evening outside; with the knowl- 
edge that to-morrow he was to ride back to his own country, 
whence he had fled for fear of his life, six weeks ago; 
leaving the security of this ex-sheriff’s house for the perils 
of the Peak and all that suspected region from which even 
now, probably, the pursuit had not altogether died away — 
here a sudden intense desire to know what the future might 
hold overcame him. 

“ Tell me, sir,” he said. You have told Mr. FitzHer- 
bert’s fortune, you say, as well as others. Have you told 
mine since I have been here ? ” 

There was a moment’s silence. Mr. John was silent, with 
his back turned. Robin looked up at his host, wondering 
why he did not answer. Then Mr. Bassett took up the 
candle. 

“Come,” he said; “we have been here long enough.” 


CHAPTER III 


I 

“ There will be a company of us to-night/' said Mr. John 
to the two priests, as he helped them to dismount. “ Mr. 
Alban has sent his man forward from Derby to say that 
he will be here before night." 

“ Mr. Ludlam and I are together for once," said Mr. 
Garlick. “ We must separate again to-morrow, he is for 
the north again, he tells me. There has been no more 
trouble } " 

“Not a word of it. They were beaten last time and will 
not try again, I think, for the present. You heard of the 
attempt at Candlemas, then.^" 

It had been a quiet time enough ever since Lent, through- 
out the whole county; and it seemed as if the heat of the 
assault had cooled for want of success. Plainly a great deal 
had been staked upon the attack on Padley, which, for its 
remoteness from towns, was known to be a meeting-place 
where priests could always find harbourage. And, indeed, 
it was time that the Catholics should have a little breathing- 
space. Things had been very bad with them — the arrest of 
Mr. Simpson, and, still more, his weakness (though he had 
not as yet actually fulfilled his promise of going to church, 
and was still detained in gaol) ; the growing lukewarmness 
of families that seldom saw a priest; the blows struck at 
the FitzHerbert family; and, above all, the defection of 
Mr. Thomas — all these things had brought the hearts of 
the faithful very low, Mr. John himself had had an un- 


S82 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


troubled time since his return a little before Easter; but he 
had taken the precaution not to remain too long at Padley 
at one time; he had visited his other estates at Swynnerton 
and elsewhere, and had even been back again at Langley. 
But there had been no hint of any pursuit. Padley had 
remained untouched; the men went about their farm busi- 
ness; the housekeeper peered from her windows, without 
a glimpse of armed men such as had terrified the household 
on Candlemas day. 

It was only last night, indeed, that the master had re- 
turned, in time to meet the two priests who had asked for 
shelter for a day or two. They had stayed here before 
continually, as well as at Booth’s Edge, during their travels, 
both in the master’s absence and when he was at home. 
There were a couple of rooms kept vacant always for “ men 
of God ” ; and all priests who came were instructed, of 
course (in case of necessity), as to the hiding-holes that 
Mr. Owen had contrived a few years before. Never, how- 
ever, had there been any use made of them. 

It was a hot July afternoon when the two priests were 
met to-day by Mr. John outside the arched gate that ran 
between the hall and the buttery. They had already dined 
at a farm a few miles down the valley, but they were taken 
round the house at once to the walled garden, where drink 
and food were set out. Here their dusty boots were pulled 
off; they lai4 aside their hats, and were presently at their 
ease again. 

They were plain men, these two; though Mr. Garlick 
had been educated at Oxford, and, before his going to 
Rheims, had been schoolmaster at Tideswell. In appear- 
ance he was a breezy sunburnt man, with very little of the 
clerk about him, and devoted to outdoor sports (which was 
something of a disguise to him since he could talk hawking 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


S83 


and riding in mixed company with a real knowledge of the 
facts). He spoke in a loud voice with a strong Derbyshire 
accent, which he had never lost and now deliberately used. 
Mr. Ludlam looked far more of the priest: he was a clean- 
shaven man, of middle-age, with hair turning to grey on his 
temples, and with a very pleasant disarming smile ; he 
spoke very little, but listened with an interested and atten- 
tive air. Both were, of course, dressed in the usual riding 
costume of gentlemen, and used good horses. 

It was exceedingly good to sit here, with the breeze from 
over the moors coming down on them, with cool drink be- 
fore them, and the prospect of a secure day, at any rate, in 
this stronghold. Their host, too, was contented and serene, 
and said so, frankly. 

“ I am more at peace, gentlemen,” he said, “ than I have 
been for the past hve years. My son is in gaol yet; and I 

am proud that he should be there, since my eldest son ” 

(he broke off a moment). “And I think the worst of the 
storm is over. Her Grace is busying herself with other 
matters.” 

“ You mean the Spanish fleet, sir? ” said Mr. Gar- 
lick. 

He nodded. 

“ It is not that I look for final deliverance from Spain,” 
he said. “ I have no wish to be aught but an Englishman, 
as I said to Mr. Bassett a while ago. But I think the fleet 
will distract her Grace for a while; and it may very well 
mean that we have better treatment hereafter.” 

“What news is there, sir?” 

“ I hear that the Londoners buzz continually with false 
alarms. It was thought that the fleet might arrive on any 
day; but I understand that the fishing-boats say that 
nothing has yet been seen. By the end of the month, I 
daresay, we shall have news.” 


384 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


So they talked pleasantly in the shade till the shadows 
began to lengthen. They were far enough here from the 
sea-coast to feel somewhat detached from the excitement 
that was beginning to seethe in the south. At Plymouth, 
it was said, all had been in readiness for a month or two 
past; at Tilbury, my lord Leicester was steadily gathering 
troops. But here, inland, it was more of an academic 
question. The little happenings in Derby; the changes of 
weather in the farms; the deaths of old people from the 
summer heats — these things were far more vital and sig- 
nificant than the distant thunders of Spain. A beacon or 
two had been piled on the hills, by order of the authorities, 
to pass on the news when it should come; a few lads had 
disappeared from the countryside to drill in Derby market- 
place; but except for these things, all was very much as 
it had been from the beginning. The expected catastro- 
phe meant little more to such folk than the coming of the 
Judgment Day — certain, but infinitely remote from the 
grasp of the imagination. 

The three were talking of Robin as they came down 
towards the house for supper, and, as they turned the 
corner, he himself was at that moment dismounting. 

He looked surprisingly cool and well-trimmed, consider- 
ing his ride up the hot valley. He had taken his journey 
easily, he said, as he had had a long day yesterday. 

“ And I made a round to pay a visit to Mistress Man- 
ners,” he said. “ I found her a-bed when I got there ; and 
Mrs. Alice says she will not be at mass to-morrow. She 
stood too long in the sun yesterday, at the carrying of 
the hay; it is no more than that.” 

Mistress Manners is a marvel to me,” said Garlick, as 
they went towards the house. Neither wife nor nun. 
And she rules her house like a man; and she knows if a 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


385 


priest lift his little finger in Derby. She sent me my whole 
itinerary for this last circuit of mine; and every point fell 
out as she said.*’ 

Robin thought that he had seldom had so pleasant a 
supper as on that night. The windows of the low hall 
where he had dined so often as a boy, were flung wide to 
catch the scented evening air. The sun was round to the 
west and threw long, golden rays, that were all lovely light 
and no heat, slantways on the paved floor and the polished 
tables and the bright pewter. Down at the lower end sat 
the servants, brown men, burned by the sun; lean as 
panthers, scarcely speaking, ravenous after their long day 
in the hayfields; and up here three companions with whom 
he was wholly at his ease. The evening was as still as 
night, except for the faint peaceful country sounds that 
came up from the valley below — the song of a lad riding 
home ; the barking of a dog ; the bleat of sheep — all minute 
and delicate, as unperceived, yet as effective, as a rich fab- 
ric on which a design is woven. It seemed to him as he 
listened to the talk — the brisk, shrewd remarks of Mr. 
Garlick; the courteous and rather melancholy answers of 
his host; as he watched the second priest’s eyes looking 
gently and pleasantly about him; as he ate the plain, good 
food and drank the country drink, that, in spite of all, his 
lot was cast in very sweet places. There was not a hint 
here of disturbance, or of men’s passions, or of ugly strife: 
there was no clatter, as in the streets of Derby, or pressure 
of humanity, or wearying politics of the market-place. 
He found himself in one of those moods that visit all men 
sometimes, when the world appears, after all, a homely 
and a genial place; when the simplest things are the best; 
when no excitement or ambition or furious zeal can com- 
pare with the gentle happiness of a tired body that is in 


886 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


the act of refreshment^ or of a driven mind that is finding 
its relaxation. At least, he said to himself, he would 
enjoy this night and the next day and the night after, 
with all his heart. 

The four found themselves so much at ease here, that 
the dessert was brought in to them where they sat; and it 
was then that the first unhappy word was spoken. 

“ Mr. Simpson ! ” said Garlick suddenly. “ Is there any 
more news of him.^ ” 

Mr. John shook his head. 

He hath not yet been to church, thank God ! ” he said. 
“ So much I know for certain. But he hath promised to 
go.” 

“ Why is he not yet gone ? He promised a great while 
ago.” 

“ I hear he hath been sick. Derby gaol is a pestiferous 
place. They are waiting, I suppose, till he is well enough 
to go publicly, that all the world may be advertised of it ! ” 

Mr. Garlick gave a bursting sigh. 

“ I cannot understand it at all,” he said. “ There has 
never been so zealous a priest. I have ridden with him 
again and again before I was a priest. He was always 
quiet; but I took him to be one of those stout-hearted 
souls that need never brag. Why, it was here that we 
heard him tell of Mr. Nelson’s death! ” 

Mr. John threw out his hands. 

“These prisons are devilish,” he said; “they wear a 
man out as the rack can never do. Why, see my son ! ” he 
cried. “ Oh ! I can speak of him if I am but moved enough ! 
It was that same Derby gaol that wore him out too ! It is 
the darkness, and the ill food, and the stenches and the 
misery. A man’s heart fails him there, who could face a 
thousand deaths in the sunlight. Man after man hath 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


S87 


fallen there — both in Derby, and in London and in all the 
prisons. It is their heart that goes — all the courage runs 
from them like water, with their health. If it were the 
rack and the rope only, England would be Catholic, yet, 
I think.” 

The old man’s face blazed with indignation; it was not 
often that he so spoke out his mind. It was very easy 
to see that he had thought continually of his son’s fall. 

“ Mistress Manners hath told me the very same thing,” 
said Robin. “ She visited Mr. Thomas in gaol once at 
least. She said that her heart failed her altogether there.” 

Mr. Ludlam smiled. 

“ I suppose it is so,” he said gently, “ since you say so. 
But I think it would not be so with me. The rack and the 
rope, rather, are wliat would shake me to the roots, unless 
God His Grace prevailed more than it ever yet hath with 
me.” 

He smiled again. 

Robin shook his head sharply. 

“As for me !” he said grimly, with tight lips. 

It was a lovely night of stars as the four stepped out of 
the archway before going upstairs to the parlour. Behind 
them stood the square and solid house, resembling a very 
fortress. The lights that had been brought in still shone 
through the windows, and a hundred night insects leapt and 
poised in the brightness. 

And before them lay the deep valley — silent now except 
for the trickle of the stream; dark (since the moon was 
not yet risen), except for one light that burned far away 
in some farm-house on the other side; and this light went 
out, like a closing eye, even as they looked. But overhead, 
where God dwelt, all heaven was alive. The huge arch 
resting, as it appeared, on the monstrous bases of the 


388 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


moors and hills standing round this place, like the moun- 
tains about Jerusalem, was one shimmering vault of glory, 
as if it was there that the home of life had its place, and 
this earth beneath but a bedroom for mortals, or for those 
that were too weary to aspire or climb. The suggestion 
was enormously powerful. Here was this mortal earth that 
needed rest so cruelly — that must have darkness to refresh 
its tired eyes, coolness to recuperate its passion, and silence, 
if ever its ears were to hear again. But there was ra- 
diance unending. All day a dome of rigid blue; all night 
a span of glittering lights — the very home of a glory that 
knows no waste and that therefore needs no reviving: it 
was to that only, therefore, that a life must be chained 
which would not falter or fail in the unending tides and 
changes of the world. . . . 

A soft breeze sprang up among the tops of the chestnuts ; 
and the sound was as of the going of a great company that 
whispered for silence. 

II 

It was within an hour of dawn that the first mass was 
said next morning by Mr. Robert Alban. 

The chapel was decked out as they seldom dared to deck 
it in those days; but the failure of the last attempt on 
this place, and the peace that had followed, made them 
bold. 

The carved chest of newly-cut oak was in its place, with 
a rich carpet of silk spread on its face; and, on the top, 
the three linen cloths as prescribed by the Ritual. Two 
silver candlesticks, that stood usually on the high shelf 
over the hall-fire, and a silver crucifix of Flemish work, 
taken from the hiding-place, were in a row on the back, 
with red and white flowers between. Beneath the linen 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! $89 

cloths a tiny flat elevation showed where the altar stone 
lay. The rest of the chapel, in its usual hangings, had 
only sweet herbs on the floor; with two or three long seats 
carried up from the hall below. An extraordinary sweet- 
ness and peace seemed in the place both to the senses and 
the soul of the young priest as he went up to the altar to 
vest. Confessions had been heard last night; and, as he 
turned, in the absolute stillness of the morning, and saw, 
beneath those carved angels that still to-day lean from 
the beams of the roof, the whole little space already filled 
with farm-lads, many of whom were to approach the altar 
presently, and the grey head of their master kneeling on 
the floor to answer the mass, it appeared to him as if the 
promise of last night were reversed, and that it was, after 
all, earth rather than heaven that proclaimed the peace 
and the glory of God. ... 

Robin served the second mass himself, said by Mr. Gar- 
lick, and made his thanksgiving as well as he could mean- 
while; but he found what appeared to him at the time 
many distractions, in watching the tanned face and hands 
of the man who was so utterly a countryman for nine- 
tenths of his life, and so utterly a priest for the rest. His 
very sturdiness and breeziness made his reverence the more 
evident and pathetic: he read the mass rapidly, in a low 
voice, harshened by shouting in the open air over his 
sports, made his gestures abruptly, and yet did the whole 
with an extraordinary attention. After the communion, 
when he turned for the wine and water, his face, as so 
often with rude folk in a great emotion, browned as it was 
with wind and sun, seemed lighted from within; he seemed 
etherealized, yet with his virility all alive in him. A 
phrase, wholly inapplicable in its first sense, came irre- 
sistibly to the younger priest’s mind as he waited on him. 


390 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“ When the strong man, armed, keepeth his house, his 
goods are in peace.” 

Robin heard the third mass, said by Mr. Ludlam, from 
a corner near the door; and this one, too, was a fresh ex- 
perience. The former priest had resembled a strong man 
subdued by grace; the second, a w'eak man ennobled by it. 
Mr. Ludlam was a delicate soul, smiling often, as has been 
said, and speaking little — “ a mild man,” said the country- 
folk. Yet, at the altar there was no weakness in him; he 
was as a keen, sharp blade, fitted as a heavy knife cannot 
be, for fine and peculiar work. His father had been a 
yeoman, as had the other’s ; yet there must have been some 
unusual strain of blood in him, so deft and gentle he was — 
more at his ease here at God’s Table than at the table of 
any man. ... So he, too, finished his mass, and began to 
unvest. ... 

Then, with a noise as brutal as a blasphemy, there came 
a thunder of footsteps on the stairs; and a man burst into 
the room, with glaring eyes and rough gestures. 

“ There is a company of men coming up from the valley,” 
he cried ; “ and another over the moor. . . . And it is my 
lord Shrewsbury’s livery.” 

Ill 

In an instant all was in confusion; and the peace had 
fled. Mr. John was gone; and his voice could be heard 
on the open stairs outside speaking rapidly in sharp, low 
whispers to the men gathered beneath; and, meanwhile, 
three or four servants, two men and a couple of maids, 
previously drilled in their duties, were at the altar, on 
which Mr. Ludlam had but that moment laid down his 
amice. The three priests stood together waiting, fearing 
to hinder or to add to the bustle. A low wailing rose from 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


S91 


outside the door; and Robin looked from it to see if there 
were anything he could do. But it was only a little country 
servant crouching on the tiny landing that united the two 
sets of stairs from the court, with her apron over her 
head: she must have been in the partitioned west end of the 
chapel to hear the mass. He said a word to her; and the 
next instant was pushed aside, as a man tore by bearing a 
great bundle of stuffs — vestments and the altar cloths. 
When he turned again, the chapel was become a common 
room once more: the chest stood bare, with a great bowl of 
flowers on it; the candlesticks were gone; and the maid 
was sweeping up the herbs. 

‘‘ Come, gentlemen,*" said a sharp voice at the door, 

there is no time to lose.** 

He went out with the two others behind, and followed 
Mr. John downstairs. A1 ready the party of servants was 
dispersed to their stations; two or three to keep the doors, 
no doubt, and the rest back to kitchen work and the like, 
to give the impression that all was as usual. 

The four went straight down into the hall, to And it 
empty, except for one man who stood by the fire-place. 
But a surprising change had taken place here. Instead 
of the solemn panelling, with the carved shield that cov- 
ered the wall over the hearth, there was a great doorway 
opened, through which showed, not the bricks of the chim- 
ney-breast, but a black space large enough to admit a man. 

** See here,*’ said Mr. John, “ there is room for two here, 
but no more. There is room for a third in another little 
chamber upstairs that is nearly joined on to this: but it is 

not so good. Now, gentlemen ” 

This is the safer of the two ? ” asked Robin abruptly. 

“ I think it to be so. Make haste, gentlemen.” 

Robin wheeled on the others. He said that there was no 
time to Brgiw in. 


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COME RACK! CQME ROPE! 


“ See ! he said. “ I have not yet been taken at all. 
Mr. Gar lick hath been taken; and Mr. Ludlam hath had a 
warning. There is no question that you must be here.*’ 

“ I utterly refuse ” began Garlick. 

Robin went to the door in three strides; and was out of 
it. He closed the door behind him and ran upstairs. As 
he reached the head his eye caught a glint of sunlight on 
some metal far up on the moor beyond the belt of trees. 
He did not turn his head again; he went straight in and 
waited. 

Presently he heard steps coming up, and Mr. John 
appeared smiling and out of breath. 

“ I have them in,” he said, “ by promising that there 
was no great difference after all; and that there was no 

time. Now, sir ” And he went towards the wall at 

which, long ago, Mr. Owen had worked so hard. 

“And yourself, sir.^ ” asked Robin, as once more an 
innocent piece of panelling moved outwards under Mr. 
John’s hand. 

“ I’ll see to that; but not until you are in ” 

“But—" 

The old man’s face blazed suddenly up. 

“ Obey me, if you please. I am the master here. I tell 
you I have a very good place.” 

There was no more to be said. Robin advanced to the 
opening, and sat down to slide himself in. It was a little 
door about two feet square, with a hole beneath it. 

“ Drop gently, Mr. Alban,” whispered the voice in his 
ear. “ The altar vessels are at the bottom, with the cru- 
cifix, on some soft stuff. . . . That is it. Slide in and let 
yourself slip. There is some food and drink there, too.” 

Robin did so. The floor of the little chamber was about 
five feet down, and he could feel woodwork on all three 
sides of him. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 893 

When the door is closed,’* said the voice from the day- 
light, “ push a pair of bolts on right and left till they go 
home. Tap upon the shutter when it is done.” 

The light vanished, and Robin was aware of a faint 
smell of smoke. Then he remembered that he had noticed 
a newly lit fire on the hearth of the hall. ... He found 
the bolts, pushed them, and tapped lightly three times. 
He heard a hand push on the shutter to see that all was 
secure, and then footsteps go away over the floor on a 
level with his chin. 

Then he remembered that he must be in the same cham- 
ber with his two fellow-priests, separated from them by 
the flooring on which he stood. He rapped gently with 
his foot twice. Two soft taps came back. Silence followed. 

IV 

Time, as once before in his experience, seemed wholly 
banished from this place. There were moments of reflec- 
tion when he appeared to himself as having but just en- 
tered; there were other moments when he might have been 
here for an eternity that had no divisions to mark it. He 
was in complete and utter darkness. There was not a 
crack anywhere in the woodwork (so perfect had been the 
young carpenter’s handiwork) by which even a glimmer of 
light could enter. A while ago he had been in the early 
morning sunlight; now he might be in the grave. 

For a while his emotions and his thoughts raced one 
another, tumbling in inextricable confusion; and they were 
all emotions and thoughts of the present: intense little 
visions of the men closing round the house, cutting off 
escape from the valley on the one side and from the wild 
upland country on the other; questions as to where Mr. 
John would hide himself; minute sensible impressions of 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


394. 

the smoky flavour of the air, the unpaned woodwork, the 
soft stuffs beneath his feet. Then they began to extend 
themselves wider, all with that rapid un jarring swiftness: 
he foresaw the bursting in of his stronghold; the footsteps 
within three inches of his head; the crash as the board was 
kicked in: then the capture; the ride to Derby, bound on a 
horse; the gaol; the questioning; the faces of my lord 
Shrewsbury and the magistrates . . . and the end. . . . 

There were moments when the sweat ran down his face, 
when he bit his lips in agony, and nearly moaned aloud. 
There were others in which he abandoned himself to Christ 
crucified; placed himself in Everlasting Hands that were 
mighty enough to pluck him not only out of this snare, but 
from the very hands that would hold him so soon; Hands 
that could lift him from the rack and scaffold and set him 
a free man among his hills again: yet that had not done so 
with a score of others whom he knew. He thought of these, 
and of the girl who had done so much to save them all, who 
was now saved herself by sickness, a mile or two away, 
from these hideous straits. Then he dragged out Mr. 
Maine’s beads and began to recite the “ Mysteries.” , . . 

There broke in suddenly the first exterior sign that the 
hunters were on them — a muffled hammering far beneath 
his feet. There were pauses; then voices carried up from 
the archway nearly beneath through the hollowed walls; 
then hammering again; but all was heard as through wool. 

As the first noise broke out his mind rearranged itself 
and seemed to have two consciousnesses. In the fore- 
ground he followed, intently and eagerly, every movement 
below; in the background, there still moved before him the 
pageant of deeper thoughts and more remote — of prayer 
and wonder and fear and expectation; and from that on- 
wards it continued so with him. Even while he followed 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 295 

the sounds, he understood why my lord Shrewsbury had 
made this assault so suddenly, after months of peace. . . . 
He perceived the hand of Thomas FitzHerbert, too, in the 
precision with which the attack had been made, and the 
certain information he must have given that priests would 
be in Padley that morning. 

There were noises that he could not interpret — vague 
tramplings from a direction which he could not tell; voices 
that shouted ; the sound of metal on stone. 

He did interpret rightly, however, the sudden tumult as 
the gate was unbarred at last, and the shrill screaming of 
a woman as the company poured through into the house; 
the clamour of voices from beneath as the hall below was 
filled with men; the battering that began almost imme- 
diately; and, finally, the rush of shod feet up the outside 
staircases, one of which led straight into the chapel itself. 
Then, indeed, his heart seemed to spring upwards into his 
throat, and to beat there, as loud as knocking, so loud that 
it appeared to him that all the house must hear it. 

Yet it was still some minutes before the climax came to 
him. He was still standing there, listening to voices talking, 
it seemed, almost in his ears, yet whose words he could not 
hear; the vibration of feet that shook the solid joist against 
which he had leaned his head, with closed eyes; the brush 
of a cloak once, like a whisper, against the very panel that 
shut him in. He could attend to nothing else; the rest 
of the drama was as nothing to him: he had his business in 
hand — to keep away from himself, by the very intentness 
of his will and determination, the feet that passed so close. 

The climax came in a sudden thump of a pike foot 
within a yard of his head, so imminent, that for an instant 
he thought it was at his own panel. There followed a 
splintering sound of a pike-head in the same place. He 


396 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


understood. They were sounding on the woodwork and 
piercing all that rang hollow. . . . His turn, then, would 
come immediately. 

Talking voices followed the crash; then silence; then the 
vibration of feet once more. The strain grew unbearable; 
his fingers twisted tight in his rosary, lifted themselves 
once or twice from the floor edge on which they were 
gripped, to tear back the bolts and declare himself. It 
seemed to him in those instants a thousand times better to 
come out of his own will, rather than to be poked and 
dragged from his hole like a badger. In the very midst of 
such imaginings there came a thumping blow within three 
inches of his face, and then silence. He leaned back des- 
perately to avoid the pike-thrust that must follow, with his 
eyes screwed tight and his lips mumbling. He waited; 

. . . and then, as he waited, he drew an irrepressible hiss- 
ing breath of terror, for beneath the soft padding under 
his feet he could feel movements; blow follow blow, from 
the same direction, and last a great clamour of voices 
all shouting together. 

Feet ran across the floor on which his hands were gripped 
again, and down the stairs. He perceived two things: the 
chapel was empty again, and the priests below had been 
found. 

V 

He could follow every step of the drama after that, for 
he appeared to himself now as a mere witness, without 
personal part in it. 

First, there were voices below him, so clear and close 
that he could distinguish the intonation, and who it was 
that spoke, though the words were inaudible. 

It was Mr. Garlick who first spoke — a sentence of a 
dozen words, it might be, consenting, no doubt, to come 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


397 


out without being dragged; eongratulating, perhaps (as the 
manner was), the searchers on their success. A murmur 
of answer came back, and then one sharp, peevish voice 
by itself. Again Mr. Garlick spoke, and there followed 
the shuffling of movements for a long while; and then, so 
far as the little chamber was concerned, empty silence. 
But from the hall rose up a steady murmur of talk once 
more. . . . 

Again Robin’s heart leaped in him, for there came the 
rattle of a pike-end immediately below his feet. They 
were searching the little chamber beneath, from the level 
of the hall, to see if it were empty. The pike was presently 
withdrawn. 

For a long while the talking went on. So far as the 
rest of the house was concerned, the hidden man could 
tell nothing, or whether Mr. John were taken, or whether 
the search were given up. He could not even fix his mind 
on the point; he was constructing for himself, furiously 
and intently, the scene he imagined in the hall below; he 
thought he saw the two priests barred in behind the high 
table; my lord Shrewsbury in the one great chair in the 
midst of the room; Mr. Columbell perhaps, or Mr. John 
Manners talking in his ear; the men on guard over the 
priests and beside the door; and another, maybe, standing 
by the hearth. 

He was so intent on this that he thought of little else; 
though still, on a strange background of another conscious- 
ness, moved scenes and ideas such as he had had at the 
beginning. And he was torn from this contemplation with 
the suddenness of a blow, by a voice speaking, it seemed, 
within a foot of his head. 

“ Well, we have those rats, at any rate.” 

(He perceived instantly what had happened. The men 
were back again in the chapel, and he had not heard them 


398 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


come. He supposed that he could hear the words now^ 
because of the breaking of the panel next to his own.) 

“ Ralph said he was sure of the other one, too,” said a 
second voice. 

” Which was that one.^ ” 

“ The fellow that was at Fotheringay.” 

(Robin clenched his teeth like iron.) 

“ Well, he is not here.” 

There was silence. 

“ I have sounded that side,” said the first voice sharply. 
“ Well, but ” 

“ I tell you I have sounded it. There is no time to be 
lost. My lord ” 

“ Hark ! ” said the second voice. “ There is my lord’s 
man ” 

There followed a movement of feet towards the door, as 
it seemed to the priest. 

He could hear the first man grumbling to himself, and 
beating listlessly on the walls somewhere. Then a voice 
called something unintelligible from the direction of the 
stairs; the beating ceased, and footsteps went across the 
floor again into silence. 


VI 

He was dazed and blinded by the light when, after in- 
finite hours, he drew the bolts and slid the panel open. 

He had lost all idea of time utterly: he did not know 
whether he should find that night had come, or that the 
next day had dawned. He had waited there, period after 
period; he marked one of them by eating food that had no 
taste and drinking liquid that stung his throat but did not 


m 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 

affect liis palate; he had marked another by saying com- 
pline to himself in a whisper. 

During the earlier part of those periods he had followed 
— he thought with success — the dreadful drama that was 
acted in the house. Someone had made a formal inspection 
of all the chambers — a man who said little and moved 
heavily with something of a limp (he had thought this to 
be my lord Shrewsbury himself^ who suffered from the 
gout) : this man had walked slowly through the chapel and 
out again. 

At a later period he had heard the horses being brought 
round the house; heard plainly the jingle of the bits and 
a sneeze or two. This had been followed by long inter- 
minable talking, muffled and indistinguishable, that came 
up to him from some unknown direction. Voices changed 
curiously in loudness and articulation as the speakers moved 
about. 

At a later period a loud trampling had begun again, 
plainly from the hall: he had interpreted this to mean that 
the prisoners were being removed out of doors; and he had 
been confirmed in this by hearing immediately afterwards 
again the stamping of horses and the creaking of leather. 

Again there had been a pause, broken suddenly by loud 
women’s wailing. And at last the noise of horses moving 
off; the noise grew less; a man ran suddenly through the 
archway and out again, and, little by little, complete silence 
once more. 

Yet fie had not dared to move. It was the custom, he 
knew, sometimes to leave three or four men on guard for a 
day or two after such an assault, in the hope of starving 
out any hidden fugitives that might still be left. So he 
waited again — period after period; he dozed a little for 
weariness, propped against the narrow walls of his hiding- 


400 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


hole; woke; felt again for food and found he had eaten it 
all . . . dozed again. 

Then he had started up suddenly, for without any further 
warning there had come a tiny indeterminate tapping 
against his panel. He held his breath and listened. It 
came again. Then fearlessly he drew back the bolts, slid 
the panel open and shut his eyes, dazzled by the light. 

He crawled out at last, spent and dusty. There was 
looking at him only the little red-eyed maid whom he had 
tried to comfort at some far-off hour in his life. Her 
face was all contorted with weeping, and she had a great 
smear of dust across it. 

“ What time is it? ” he said. 

“ It ... it is after two o’clock," she whispered. 

" They have all gone ? 

She nodded, speechless. 

" Whom have they taken ? " 

" Mr. FitzHerbert . . . the priests . . . the servants." 

"Mr. FitzHerbert? They found him, then?" 

She stared at him with the dull incapacity to understand 
wh}^ he did not know all that she had seen. 

"Where did they find him?" he repeated sharply. 

" The master ... he opened the door to them himself." 

Her face writhed itself again into grotesque lines, and 
she broke out into shrill wailing and weeping. 


CHAPTER IV 


I 

Marjorie was still in bed when the news was brought her 
by her friend. She did not move or speak when Mistress 
Alice said shortly that Mr. FitzHerbert had been taken 
with ten of his servants and two priests. 

“You understand, my dear. . . . They have ridden away 
to Derby, all of them together. But they may eome back 
here suddenly.” 

Marjorie nodded. 

“ Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam were in the ehimney- 
hole of the hall,” whispered Mistress Alice, glancing fear- 
fully behind her. 

Marjorie laj?^ back again on her pillows. 

“ And what of Mr. Alban ? ” she asked. 

“ Mr. Alban was upstairs. They missed him. He is 
coming here after dark, the maid says.” 

An hour after supper-time the priest came quietly up- 
stairs to the parlour. He showed no signs of his experi- 
ence, except perhaps by a certain brightness in his eyes 
and an extreme self-repression of manner. Marjorie was 
up to meet him; and had in her hands a paper. She hardly 
spoke a single expression of relief at his safety. She was 
as quiet and business-like as ever. 

“ You must lie here to-night,” she said. “ Janet hath 
your room ready. At one o’clock in the morning you must 
ride: here is a map of your journey. They may come back 
suddenly. At the place I have marked here with red there 
is a shepherd’s hut; you cannot miss it if you follow the 

401 


402 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


track I have marked. There will be meat and drink there. 
At night the shepherd will come from the westwards ; he is 
called David^ and you may trust him. You must lie there 
two weeks at least.” 

“ I must have news of the other priests^” he said. 

Marjorie bowed her head. 

“ I will send a letter to you by Dick Sampson at the end 
of two weeks. Until that I can promise nothing. They 
may have spies round the house by this time to-morrow, or 
even earlier. And I will send in that letter any news I 
can get from Derby.” 

“ How shall I find my way ? ” asked Robin. 

“ Until it is light you will be on ground that you know.” 
(She flushed slightly.) “ Do you remember the hawking, 
that time after Christmas.^ It is all across that ground. 
When daylight comes you can follow this map.” (She 
named one or two landmarks, pointing to them on the map.) 
“ You must have no lantern.” 

They talked a few minutes longer as to the way he must 
go and the provision that would be ready for him. He 
must take no mass requisites with him. David had made 
that a condition. Then Robin suddenly changed the sub- 
ject. 

“Had my father any hand in this affair at Padley.^ ” 

“ I am certain he had not.” 

“ They will exeeute Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam, will 
they not.^ ” 

She bowed her head in assent. 

“ The Summer Assizes open on the eighteenth,” she said. 
“ There is no doubt as to how all will go.” - 

Robin rose. 

“ It is time I were in bed,” he said, “ if I must ride at 
one.” 

The two women knelt for his blessing. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


403 


At one o’clock Marjorie heard the horse brought round. 
She stepped softly to the window,, knowing herself to be 
invisible, and peeped out. 

All was as she had ordered. There was no light of any 
kind: she could make out but dimly in the summer dark- 
ness the two figures of horse and groom. As she looked, a 
third figure appeared beneath; but there was no word 
spoken that she could hear. This third figure mounted. 
She caught her breath as she heard the horse scurry a little 
with freshness, since every sound seemed full of peril. 
Then the mounted figure faded one way into the dark, and 
the groom another. 

II 

It was two weeks to the day that Robin received his 
letter. 

He had never before been so long in utter solitude; for 
the visits of David did not break it; and, for other men, he 
saw none except a hog-herd or two in the distance once or 
twice. The shepherd came but once a day, carrying a 
great jug and a parcel of food, and set them down without 
the hut ; he seemed to avoid even looking within ; but 
merely took the empty jug of the day before and went 
away again. He was an old, bent man, with a face like a 
limestone cliff, grey and weather-beaten; he lived half the 
year up here in the wild Peak country, caring for a few 
sheep, and going down to the village not more than once or 
twice a week. There was a little spring welling up in a 
hollow not fifty yards away from the hut, which itself stood 
in a deep, natural rift among the high hills, so that men 
might search for it a lifetime and not come across it. 

Robin’s daily round was very simple. He had leave to 
make a fire by day, but he must extinguish it at night lest 


404 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


its glow should be seen; so he began his morning by mixing 
a little oatmeal, and then preparing his dinner. About 
noon, so near as he could judge by the sun, he dined; some- 
times off a partridge or rabbit; on Fridays off half a dozen 
tiny trout; and set aside part of the cold food for supper; 
he had one good loaf of nearly black bread every day, 
and the single jug of small beer. 

The greater part of the day he spent within the hut, for 
safety’s sake, sleeping a little, and thinking a good deal. 
He had no books with him; even his breviary had been for- 
bidden, since David, as a shrewd man, had made condi- 
tions, first that he should not have to speak with any refu- 
gee, second, that if the man were a priest he should have 
nothing about him that could prove him to be so. Mr. 
Maine’s beads, only, had been permitted, on condition that 
they were hidden always beneath a stone outside the hut. 

After nightfall Robin went out to attend to his horse 
that was tethered in the next ravine, over a crag; to shift 
his peg and bring him a good armful of cut grass and a 
bucket of water. (The saddle and bridle were hidden be- 
neath a couple of great stones that leaned together not 
far away.) After doing what was necessary for his horse, 
he went to draw water for himself ; and then took his 
exercise, avoiding carefully, according to instructions, every 
possible sky-line. And it was then, for the most part, 
that he did his clear thinking. . . . He tried to fancy him- 
self in a fortnight’s retreat, such as he had had at Rheims 
before his reception of orders. 

The evening of the twenty- fifth of July closed in stormy; 
and Robin, in an old cloak he had found placed in the hut 
for his own use, made haste to attend to what was neces- 
sary, and hurried back as quickly as he could. He sat a 
while, listening to the thresh of the rain and the cry of 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


405 


the wind; for^ up here in the high land the full storm broke 
on him. (The hut was wattled of osiers and clay, and kept 
out the wet tolerably well.) 

He could see nothing from the door of his hut except the 
dim outline of the nearer crag thirty or forty yards off; 
and he went presently to bed. 

He awoke suddenly, wide awake — as is easy for a man 
who is sleeping in continual expectation of an alarm — at 
the flash of light in his eyes. But he was at once reassured 
by Dick’s voice. 

“ I have come, sir ; and I have brought the mistress’ 
letter.” 

Robin sat up and took the packet. He saw now that the 
man carried a little lantern with a slide over it that allowed 
only a thin funnel of light to escape that could be shut off 
in an instant. 

“All well, Dick? I did not hear you coming.” 

“ The storm’s too loud, sir.” 

“All well?” 

“ Mistress Manners thinks you had best stay here a week 
longer, sir.” 

“ And . . . and the news ? ” 

“ It is all in the letter, sir.” 

Robin looked for the inscription, but there was none. 
Then he broke the two seals, opened the paper and began 
to read. For the next five minutes there was no sound, 
except the thresh of the rain and the cry of the wind. The 
letter ran as follows: 


III 


** Three more have glorified God to-day by a good con- 
fession — Mr. Garlick, Mr. Ludlam and Mr. Simpson. That 


406 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


is the summary. The tale in detail hath been brought to 
me to-day by an eye-witness. 

“The trial went as all thought it would. There was 
never the least question of it; for not only were the two 
priests taken with signs of their calling upon them, but 
both of them had been in the hands of the magistrates be- 
fore. There was no shrinking nor fear showed of any kind. 
But the chief marvel was that these two priests met with 
Mr. Simpson in the gaol; they put them together in one 
room, I think, hoping that Mr. Simpson would prevail upon 
them to do as he had promised to do; but, by the grace of 
God, it was all the other way, and it was they who pre- 
vailed upon Mr. Simpson to confess himself again openly 
as a Catholic. This greatly enraged my lord Shrewsbury 
and the rest; so that there was less hope than ever of any 
respite, and sentence was passed upon them all together, 
Mr. Simpson showing, at the reading of it, as much cour- 
age as any. This was all done two days ago at the Assizes ; 
and it was to-day that the sentence was carried out. 

“ They were all three drawn on hurdles together to the 
open space by St. Mary’s Bridge, where all was prepared, 
with gallows and cauldron and butchering block; and a 
great company went after them. I have not heard that 
they spoke much on the way, except that a friend of Mr. 
Garlick’s cried out to him to remember that they had often 
shot off together on the moors; to which Mr. Garlick made 
answer merrily that it was true ; but that ‘ I am now to 
shoot off such a shot as I never shot in all my life.’ He 
was merry at the trial, too, I hear ; and said that ‘ he was 
not come to seduce men, but rather to induce them to the 
Catholic religion, that to this end he had come to the coun- 
try, and for this that he would work so long as he lived.’ 
And this he did on the scaffold, speaking to the crowd 
about him of the salvation of their souls, and casting papers. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 407 

which he had written in prison^ in proof of the Catholic 
faith. 

“ Mr. Garlick went up the ladder firsts kissing and em- 
bracing it as the instrument of his death, and to encourage 
Mr. Simpson, as it was thought, since some said he showed 
signs of timorousness again when he came to the place. 
But he showed none when his turn came, but rather ex- 
hibited the same courage as them both. Mr. Ludlam stood 
by smiling while all was done; and smiling still when his 
turn came. His last words were, " Venite henedicti Dei ' ; 
and this he said, seeming to see a vision of angels come to 
bear his soul away. 

“ They were cut down, all three of them, before they 
were dead; and the butchery done on them according to 
sentence; yet none of them cried out or made the least 
sound; and their heads and quarters were set up imme- 
diately afterwards on poles in divers places of Derby; 
some of them above the house that stands on the bridge 
and others on the bridge itself. But these, I hear, will 
not be there long. 

“ So these three have kept the faith and finished their 
course with joy. Laus Deo. Mr. John is in ward, for 
harbouring of the priests; but nothing hath been done to 
him yet. 

“ As for your reverence, I am of opinion that you had 
best wait another week where you are. There has been 
a man or two seen hereabouts whom none knew, as well as 
at Padley. It hath been certified, too, that Mr. Thomas 
was at the root of it all, that he gave the information that 
Mr. John and at least a priest or two would be at Padley 
at that time, though no man knows how he knew it, unless 
through servants’ talk; and since Mr. Thomas knows your 
reverence, it will be better to be hid for a little longer. 
So, if you will, in a week from now, I will send Dick once 


408 


CQME RACK! COME ROPE! 


again to tell you if all be well. I look for no letter back 
for this since you have nothing to write with in the hut, 
as I know; but Dick will tell me how you do; as well as 
anything you may choose to say to him. 

“ I ask your reverence’s blessing again. I do not forget 
your reverence in my poor prayers.” 

And so it ended, without signature — for safety’s sake. 

IV 

Robin looked up when he had finished to where the faint 
outline of the servant could be seen behind the lantern, 
against the greater darkness of the wall. 

“ You know of all that has fallen at Derby ” he said, 
with some difficulty. 

Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, pray God we may be willing, too, if He bids us 
to it.” 

“ Yes, sir.” . . . 

“ You had best lose no time if you are to be home before 
dawn. Say to Mistress Manners that I thank her for her 
letter; that I praise God for the graces she relates in it; 
and that I will do as she bids. . . . Dick.” 

Yes, sir.” 

” Is Mr. Audrey in any of this? ” 

“ I do not know, sir. ... I heard ” The man's 

voice hesitated. 

” What did you hear? ” 

“ I heard that my lord Shrewsbury wondered at his ab- 
sence from the trial; and . . . and that a message would 
be sent to Mr. Audrey to look to it to be more zealous on 
her Grace’s commission.” 

” That was all? ” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


400 


“ Yes, sir/* 

Then you had best be gone. There is no more to be 
said. Bring me what news you can when you come again. 
Goodnight, Dick.” 

“ Good-night, sir. . . . God bless your reverence.” 

I 

An hour later, with the first coming of the dawn, the 
storm ceased. (It was that same storm, if he had only known 
it, that had blown upon the Spanish Fleet at sea and driven 
it towards destruction. But of this he knew nothing.) He 
had not slept since Dick had gone, but had lain on his back 
on the turfed and blanketed bed in the corner, his hands 
clasped behind his head, think, thinking and re-thinking 
all that he had read just now. He had known it must 
happen; but there seemed to him all the difference in the 
world between an event and its mere certainty. . . . The 
thing was done — out to every bitter detail of the loathsome, 
agonizing death — and it had been two of the men whom he 
had seen say mass after himself — the ruddy-faced, breezy 
countryman, yet anointed with the sealing oil, and the gen- 
tle, studious, smiling man who had been no less vigorous 
than his friend. . . . 

But there was one thing he had not known, und that, the 
recovery of the faint heart which they had inspirited. And 
then, in an instant he remembered how he had seen the 
three, years ago, against the sunset, as he rode with An- 
thony. . . . 

His mind was full of the strange memory as he came out 
at last, when the black darkness began to fade to grey, 
and the noise of the rain on the roof had ceased, and the 
wind had fallen. 

It was a view of extraordinary solemnity that he looked 
on, as he stood leaning against the rough door-post. The 


410 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


night was still stronger than day; overhead it was as blaek 
as ever, and stars shone in it through the dissolving clouds 
that were passing at last. But, immediately over the grim, 
serrated edge of the crag that faced him to the east, a 
faint and tender light was beginning to burn, so faint that, 
as yet it seemed an absence of black rather than as of a 
colour itself; and in the midst of it, like a crumb of dia- 
mond, shone a single dying star. This high land was as 
still now as a sheltered valley, a tuft of springy grass stood 
out on the crag as stiff as a thin plume ; and the silence, as 
at Padley two weeks ago, was marked rather than broken 
by the tinkle of water from his spring fifty yards away. 
The air was cold and fresh and marvellously scented, after 
the rain, with the clean smell of strong turf and rushes. 
It was as different from the peace he had had at Padley as 
water is different from wine; yet it was Peace, too, a con- 
fident and expectant peace that precedes the battle, rather 
than the rest which follows it. . . . 

How was it he had seen the three men on the moor; as 
he turned with Anthony? They were against the crimson 
west, as against a glory, the two laymen on either side, 
the young priest in the middle. . . . They had seemed to 
bear him up and support him; the colour of the sky was as 
a stain of blood; and their shadows had stretched, to his 
own feet. . . . 

And there came on him in that hour one of those vast 
experiences that can never be told, when a flood rises in 
earth and air that turns them all to wine, that wells up 
through tired limbs, and puzzled brain and beating heart, 
and soothes and enkindles, all in one; when it is not a 
mere vision of peace that draws the eyes up in an ecstasy of 
sight, but a bathing in it, and an envelopment in it, of every 
fibre of life; when the lungs draw deep breaths of it; and 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


411 


the heart beats in it, and the eyes are enlightened by it; 
when the things of earth become at once eternal and fixed 
and of infinite value, and at the same instant of less value 
than the dust that floats in space; when there no longer 
appears any distinction between the finite and the eternal, 
between time and infinity; when the soul for that moment 
at least finds that rest that is the magnet and the end of 
all human striving; and that comfort which wipes away 
all tears. 


CHAPTER V 


I 

It was the sixth night after Dick Sampson had come back 
with news of Mr. Alban; and he had already received in- 
structions as to how he was to go twenty-four hours later. 
He was to walk^ as before, starting after dark, not carry- 
ing a letter this time, after all, in spite of the news that 
he might have taken with him ; for the priest would be back 
before morning and could hear it all then at his ease. 

Every possible cause of alarm had gone; and Marjorie, 
for the first time for three weeks, felt very nearly as con- 
tent as a year ago. Not one more doubtful visitor had ap- 
peared anywhere; and now she thought herself mistaken 
even about those solitary figures she had suspected before. 
After all, they had only been a couple of men, whose faces 
her servants did not know, who had gone past on the track 
beneath the house; one mounted, and the other on foot. 

There had been something of a reaction, too, in Derby. 
The deaths of the three priests had made an impression; 
there was no doubt of that. Mr. Biddell had written her 
a letter on the point, saying that the blood of those martyrs 
might well fie the peace, if it might not be the seed, of the 
Church in the district. Men openly said in the taverns, 
he reported, that it was hard that any should die for re- 
ligion merely; politics were one matter and religion an- 
other. Yet the deaths had dismayed the simple Catholics, 
too, for the present ; and at Hathersage church, scarcely ten 
miles away, above two hundred came to the Protestant ser- 
mon preached before my lord Shrewsbury on the first Sun- 
day after. 


412 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


413 


The news of the Armada, too, had distracted men’s minds 
wonderfully in another direction. News had come in al- 
ready, she was informed, of an engagement or two in the 
English Channel, all in favour of its defenders. More than 
that was not known. But the beacons had blazed ; and the 
market-place of Derby had echoed with the tramp of the 
train-bands; and it was not likely that at such a time the 
attention of the magistrates would be given to anything 
else. 

So her plans were laid. Mr. Alban was to come here for 
three or four days; be provided with a complete change of 
clothes (all of which she had ready); shave off his beard; 
and then set out again for the border. He had best go to 
Staffordshire, she thought, for a month or two, before be- 
ginning once more in his own county. 

) 

She went to bed that night, happy enough, in spite of 
the cause, which she loved so much, seeming to fail every- 
where. It was true that, under this last catastrophe, great 
numbers liad succumbed; but she hoped that this would be 
but for a time. Let but a few more priests come from 
Rheims to join the company that had lost so heavily, and all 
would be well again. So she said to herself: she did not 
allow even in her own soul that the security of her friend 
and the thought that he would be with her in a day or two, 
had any great part in her satisfaction. 

She awaked suddenly. At the moment she did not know 
what time it was or how long she had slept ; but it was still 
dark and deathly still. Yet she could have sworn that she 
had heard her name called. The rushlight was burned 
out; but in the summer night she could still make out the 
outline of Mistress Alice’s bed. Yet all was still there, 
except for the gentle breathing: it could not have been 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


she who had called out in her sleep^ or she would surely 
show some signs of restlessness. 

She sat up listening; but there was not a sound. She 
lay down again; and the strange fancy seized her that it 
had been her mother’s voice that she had heard. ... It 
was in this room that her mother had died. . . . Again she 
sat up and looked round. All was quiet as before: the tall 
press at the foot of her bed glimmered here and there with 
lines and points of starlight. 

Then^ as again, she began to lie down, there came the 
signal for which her heart was expectant, though her mind 
knew nothing of its coming. It was a clear rap, as of a 
pebble against the glass. ; 

She was up and out of bed in a moment, and was peering 
out under the thick arch of the little window. And a 
figure stood there, bending, it seemed, for another pebble; 
in the very place where she had seen it, she thought, nearly 
three weeks ago, standing ready to mount a horse. 

Then she was at Alice’s bedside. 

‘‘Alice,” she whispered. “ Alice ! Wake up. . . . There 
is someone come. You must come with me. I do not 

know ” Her voice faltered: she knew that she knew, 

and fear clutched her by the throat. 

The porter was fast asleep, and did not move, as carry- 
ing a rushlight she went past the buttery with her friend 
behind her saying no word. The bolts were well oiled, and 
came back with scarcely a sound. Then as the door swung 
slowly back a figure slipped in. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ it is I. ... I think I am followed. . . . 
I have but come ” 

“ Come in quickly,” she said, and closed and bolted the 
door once more. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


415 


II 

It was a horrible delight to sit, wrapped in her cloak 
with the hood over her head, listening to his story in the 
hall, and to know that it was to her house that he had come 
for safety. It was horrible to her that he needed it — so 
horrible that every shred of interior peace had left her; 
she was composed only in her speech, and it was a strange 
delight that he had come so simply. He sat there; she 
could see his outline and the pallor of his face under his 
hat, and his voice was perfectly resolute and quiet. This 
was his tale. 

“ Twice this afternoon,” he said, “ I saw a man against 
the sky, opposite my hut. It was the same man both times ; 
he was not a shepherd or a farmer’s man. The night be- 
fore, when David came, he did not speak to me; but for 
the first time he put his head in at the hut-door when he 
brought the food and made gestures that I could not under- 
stand. I looked at him and shook my head, but he would 
say nothing, and I remembered the bond and said nothing 
myself. All that he would do was to shut his eyes and 
wave his hands. Then this last night he brought no food 
at all. 

“ I was uneasy at the sight of the man, too, in the after- 
noon. I think he thought that I was asleep; for when I 
saw him for the first time I was lying down and looking 
at the crag opposite. And I saw him raise himself on his 
hands against the sky, as if he had been lying flat on his 
face in the heather. I looked at him for a while, and then 
I flung my hand out of bed suddenly, and he was gone in 
a whisk. I went to the door after a time, stretching my- 
self as if I were just awakened, and there was no sign 
of him. 

“ About an hour before sunset I was watching again, 


416 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


and I saw, on a sudden, a covey of birds rise suddenly 
about two hundred yards away to the north of the hut — 
that is, by the way that I should have to go down to the 
valleys again. They rose as if they were frightened. I 
kept my eyes on the place, and presently I saw a man’s 
hat moving very slowly. It was the movement of a man 
crawling on his hands, drawing his legs after him. 

“ Then I waited for David to come, but he did not come, 
and I determined then to make my way down here as well 
as I could after dark. If there were any fellows after me, 
I should have a better chance of escape than if I stayed in 
the hut, I thought, until they could fetch up the rest; and, 
if not, I could lose nothing by coming a day too soon.” 

“ But ” began the girl eagerly. 

“ Wait,” said Robin quietly. ” That is not all. I made 
very poor way on foot (for I thought it better to come 
quietly than on a horse), and I went round about again and 
again in the precipitous ground so that, if there were any 
after me, they could not tell which way I meant to go. 
For about two hours I heard and saw nothing of any man, 
and I began to think I was a fool for all my pains. So I 
sat down a good while and rested, and even thought that 
I would go back again. But just as I was about to get up 
again I heard a stone fall a great way behind me : it was on 
some rocky ground about two hundred yards away. The 
night was quite still, and I could hear the stone very 
plainly. ... It was I that crawled then, further down the 
hill, and it was then that I saw once more a man’s head 
move against the stars. 

” I went straight on then, as quietly as I could. I made 
sure that it was but one that was after me, and that he 
would not try to take me by myself, and I saw no more 
of him till I came down near Padley ” 

“Near Padley? Why ” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


417 


“ I meant to go there first/’ said the priest, “ and lie 
there till morning. But as I came down the hill I heard 
the steps of him again a great way off. So I turned sharp 
into a little broken ground that lies there, and hid myself 
among the rocks ” 

Mistress Alice lifted her hand suddenly. 

“ Hark ! ” she whispered. 

Then as the three sat motionless, there came, distinct 
and clear, from a little distance down the hill, the noise of 
two or three horses walking over stony ground. 

Ill 

For one deathly instant the two sat looking each into 
the other’s white face — since even the priest changed colour 
at the sound. (While they had talked the dawn had begun 
to glimmer, and the windows showed grey and ghostly on 
the thin morning mist.) Then they rose together. Mar- 
jorie was the first to speak. 

“ You must come upstairs at once,” she said. “ All is 
ready there, as you know.” 

The priest’s lips moved without speaking. Then he said 
suddenly : 

“ I had best be off the back way; that is, if it is what I 
think ” 

“ The house will be surrounded.” 

“ But you will have harboured me ” 

Marjorie’s lips opened in a smile. 

“ I have done that in any case,” she said. She caught 
up the candle and blew it out, as she went towards the 
door. 

“ Come quickly,” she said. 

At the door Janet met them. Her old face was all dis- 


418 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


traught with fear. She had that moment run downstairs 
again on hearing the noise. Marjorie silenced her by a 
gesture. . . . 

The young carpenter had done his work excellently, and 
Marjorie had taken care that there had been no neglect 
since the work had been done. Yet so short was the time 
since the hearing of the horses’ feet, that as the girl slipped 
out of the press again after drawing back the secret door, 
there came the loud knocking beneath, for which they had 
waited with such agony. 

“ Quick ! ” she said. . . . 

From within, as she waited, came the priest’s whisper. 

“ Is this to be pushed ” 

“Yes; yes.” 

There was the sound of sliding wood and a little snap. 
Then she closed the doors of the press again. 

IV 

. Mr. Audrey outside grew indignant, and the more so 
since he was unhappy. 

He had had the message from my lord Shrewsbury that 
a magistrate of her Grace should show more zeal; and, 
along with this, had come a private intimation that it was 
suspected that Mr. Audrey had at least once warned the 
recusants of an approaching attack. It would be as well, 
then, if he would manifest a little activity. . . . 

But it appeared to him the worst luck in the world that 
the hunt should lead him to Mistress Manners’ door. 

It was late in the afternoon that the informer had made 
his appearance at Matstead, thirsty and dishevelled, with 
the news that a man thought to be a Popish priest was in 
hiding on the moors; that he was being kept under obser- 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


419 


vation by another informer ; and that it was to be suspected 
that he was the man who had been missed at Padley when 
my lord had taken Garlick and Ludlam. If it were the 
man, it would be the priest known by the name of Alban — 
the fellow whom my lord’s man had so much distrusted at 
Fotheringay, and whom he had seen again in Derby a while 
later. Next, if it were this man, he would almost certainly 
make for Padley if he were disturbed. 

Mr. Audrey had bitten his nails a while as he listened to 
this, and then had suddenly consented. The plan sug- 
gested was simple enough. One little troop should ride to 
Padley, gathering reinforcements on the way, and another 
on foot should set out for the shepherd’s hut. Then, if 
the priest should be gone, this second party should come 
on towards Padley immediately and join forces with the 
riders. 

All this had been done, and the mounted company, led 
by the magistrate himself, had come up from the valley in 
time to see the signalling from the heights (contrived by 
the showing of lights now and again), which indicated 
that the priest was moving in the direction that had been 
expected, and that one man at least was on his track. 
They had waited there, in the valley, till the intermittent 
signals had reached the level ground and ceased, and had 
then ridden up cautiously in time to meet the informer’s 
companion, and to learn that the fugitive had doubled sud- 
denly back towards Booth’s Edge. There they had waited 
then, till the dawn was imminent, and, with it, there came 
the party on foot, as had been arranged; then, all to- 
gether, numbering about twenty-five men, they had pushed 
on in the direction of Mistress Manners’ house. 

As the house came into view, more than ever Mr. Audrey 
reproached his evil luck. Certainly there still were two or 
three chances to one that no priest would be taken at all; 


420 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


since, first, the man might not be a priest, and next, he 
might have passed the manor and plunged back again into 
the hills. But it vras not very pleasant work, this rousing 
of a house inhabited by a woman for whom the magistrate 
had very far from unkindly feelings, and on such an er- 
rand. ... So the informers marvelled at the venom with 
which Mr. Audrey occasionally whispered at them in the 
dark. 

His heart sank as he caught a glimpse of a light first 
showing, and then suddenly extinguished, in the windows 
of the hall, but he was relieved to hear no comment on it 
from the men who walked by his horse; he even hoped 
that they had not seen it. . . . But he must do his duty, 
he said to himself. 

He grew a little warm and impatient when no answer 
came to the knocking. He said such play-acting was ab- 
surd. Why did not the man come out courageously and 
deny that he was a priest.^ He would have a far better 
excuse for letting him go. 

“ Knock again,’" he cried. 

And again the thunder rang through the archway, and 
the summons in the Queen’s name to open. 

Then at last a light shone beneath the door. (It was 
brightening rapidly towards the dawn here in the open air, 
but within it would still be dark.) Then a voice grumbled 
within. 

“ Who is there? ” 

Man,” bellowed the magistrate, “ open the door and 
have done with it. I tell you I am a magistrate ! ” 

There was silence. Then the voice came again. 

“ How do I know that you are? ” 

Mr. Audrey slipped off his horse, scrambled to the door, 
set his hands on his knees and his mouth to the keyhole. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


421 


“ Open the door, you fool, in the Queen’s name. ... I 
am Mr. Audrey, of Matstead.” 

Again came the pause. The magistrate was in the act 
of turning to hid his men beat the door in, when once more 
the voice came. 

“ I’ll tell the mistress, sir. . . . She’s a-bed.” 

His discomfort grew on him as he waited, staring out at 
the fast yellowing sky. (Beneath him the slopes towards 
the valley and the far-off hills on the other side appeared 
like a pencil drawing, delicate, minute and colourless, or, at 
the most, faintly tinted in phantoms of their own colours. 
The sky, too, was grey with the night mists not yet dis- 
solved.) It was an unneighbourly action, this of his, he 
thought. He must do his best to make it as little offensive 
as he could. He turned to his men. 

“ Now, men,” he said, glaring like a judge, “ no violence 
here, unless I give the order. No breaking of aught in the 
house. The lady here is a friend of mine; and ” 

The great bolts shot back suddenly; he turned as the 
door opened ; and there, pale as milk, with eyes that seemed 
a-fire, Marjorie’s face was looking at him; she was wrapped 
in her long cloak and her hood was drawn over her head. 
The space behind was crowded with faces, unrecognizable 
in the shadow. 

He saluted her. 

“ Mistress Manners,” he said, “ I am sorry to incommode 
you in this way. But a couple of fellows tell me that a 
man hath come this way, whom they think to be a priest. 
I am a magistrate, mistress, and ” 

He stopped, confounded by her face. It was not like 
her face at all — the face, rather, seemed as nothing; her 
whole soul was in her eyes, crying to him some message 


422 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


that he could not understand. It appeared impossible to 
him that this was a mere entreaty that he should leave 
one more priest at liberty; impossible that the mere shock 
and surprise should have changed her so. . . . He looked 
at her. . . . Then he began again: 

“ It is no will of mine, mistress, beyond my duty. But 
I hold her Grace’s commission ” 

She swept back again, motioning him to enter. He was 
astonished at his own discomfort, but he followed, and his 
men pressed close after; and he noticed, even in that twi- 
light, that a look of despair went over the girl’s face, sharp 
as pain, as she saw them. 

“You have come to search my house, sir.^” she asked. 
Her voice was as colourless as her features. 

“ My commission, mistress, compels me ” 

Then he noticed that the doors into the hall had been 
pushed open, and that she was moving towards them. And 
he thought he understood. 

“ Stand back, men,” he barked, so fiercely that they re- 
coiled. “ This lady shall speak with me first.” 

He passed up the hall after her. He was as unhappy as 
possible. He wondered what she could have to say to him; 
she must surely understand that no pleading could turn him ; 
he must do his duty. Yet he would certainly do this with 
as little offense as he could. 

“ Mistress Manners ” he began. 

Then she turned on him again. They were at the further 
end of the hall, and could speak low without being over- 
heard. 

“You must begone again,” she whispered. “Oh! you 
must begone again. You do not understand; you ” 

Her eyes still burned with that terrible eloquence; it 
was as the face of one on the rack. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


423 


“ Mistress, I cannot begone again. I must do my duty. 
But I promise you ’’ 

She was close to him, staring into his face ; he could feel 
the heat of her breath on his face. 

“ You must begone at once,” she whispered, still in that 
voice of agony. He saw her begin to sway on her feet 
and her eyes turn glassy. He caught her as she swayed. 

“ Here ! you women ! ” he cried. 

It was all that he could do to force himself out through 
the crowd of folks that looked on him. It was not that 
they barred his way. Rather they shrank from him; yet 
their eyes pulled and impeded him; it was by a separate 
elfort that he put each foot before the other. Behind he 
could hear the long moan that she had given die into silence, 
and the chattering whispers of her women who held her. 
He reassured himself savagely; he would take care that 
no one was taken . . . she would thank him presently; he 
would but set guards at all the doors and make a cursory 
search; he would break a panel or two; no more. And 
that would save both his face and her own. ... Yet he 
loathed even such work as this. . . . 

He turned abruptly as he came into the buttery passage. 

All the women in the hall,” he said sharply. “Jack, 
keep the door fast till we are done.” 

V 

He took particular pains to do as little damage as posr 
sible. 

First he went through the out-houses, himself with a pike 
testing the haystacks, where he was sure that no man could 
be hidden. The beasts turned slow and ruminating eyes 
upon him as he went by their stalls. 


424 . 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


As he passed, a little later, the inner door into the buttery 
passage, he could hear the beating of hands on the hall- 
door. He went on quickly to the kitchen, hating himself, 
yet determined to get all done quickly, and drove the 
kitchen-maid, who was crouching by the unlighted fire, out 
behind him, sending a man with her to bestow her in the 
hall. She wailed as she went by him, but it was unintelli- 
gible, and he was in no mood for listening. 

“ Take her in,” he said; “ but let no one out, nor a mes- 
sage, till all is done.” (He thought that the kinder course.) 

Then at last he went upstairs, still with his little body- 
guard of four, of whom one was the man who had followed 
the fugitive down from the hills. 

He began with the little rooms over the hall: a bedstead 
stood in one; in another was a table all piled with linen; 
a third had its floor covered with early autumn fruit, ready 
for preserving. He struck on a panel or two as he went, 
for form’s sake. 

As he came out again he turned savagely on the informer. 

“ It is damned nonsense,” he said ; “ the fellow’s not 
here at all. I told you he’d have gone back to the hills.” 

The man looked up at him with a furtive kind of sneer 
in his face ; he, too, was angry enough ; the loss of the priest 
meant the loss of the heavy reward. 

“ We have not searched a room rightly yet, sir,” 
he snarled. “ There are a hundred places ” 

“Not searched! You villain! Why, what would you 
have ? ” 

“ It’s not the manner I’ve done it before, sir. A pike- 
thrust here, and a blow there ” 

“ I tell you I will not have the house injured! Mistress 
Manners ” 

“ Very good, sir. Your honour is the magistrate. . . . 
I am not.” 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 42S 

The old man’s temper boiled over. They were passing 
at that instant, a half-open door, and within he could see a 
bare little parlour, with linen presses against the walls. It 
would not hide a cat. 

“ Do you search, then ! ” he cried. “ Here, then, and I 
will watch you! But you shall pay for any wanton dam- 
age, I tell you.” 

The man shrugged his shoulders. 

“ What is the use, then ” he began. 

“ Bah ! search, then, as you will. I will pay.” 

The noise from the hall had ceased altogether as the 
four men went into the parlour. It was a plain little room, 
with an open fireplace and a great settle beside it. There 
were hangings here and there. That over the hearth pre- 
sented Icarus in the chariot of the sun. It seemed such a 
place as that in which two lovers might sit and talk to- 
gether at sunset. ... In one place hung a dark oil paint- 
ing. 

The old man went across to the window and stared out. 

The sun was up by now, far away out of sight; and the 
whole sunlit valley stretched beneath beyond the slopes 
that led down to Padley. The loathing for his work rose 
up again and choked him — this desperate bullying of a few 
women ; and all to no purpose. He stared out at the horses 
beneath, and at the couple of men gossiping together at 
their heads. . . . He determined to see Mistress Manners 
again alone presently, when she should be recovered, and 
have a word with her in private. She would forgive him, 
perhaps, when she saw him ride off empty-handed, as he 
most certainly meant to do. 

He thought, too, of other things, this old man, as he 
stood, with his shoulders squared, resolute in his lack of 
attention to the mean work going on behind him. ... He 


426 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


wondered whether God were angry or no. Whether this 
kind of duty were according to His will. Down there was 
Padley, where he had heard mass in the old days; Padley, 
where the two priests had been taken a few weeks ago. He 
wondered ’’ 

“If it please your honour we will break in this panel,” 
came the smooth, sneering voice that he loathed. 

He turned sullenly. 

They were opposite the old picture. Beneath it there 
showed a crack in the wainscoting. . . . He could scarcely 
refuse leave. Besides, the woodwork was flawed in any 
case — he would pay for a new panel himself. 

“ There is nothing there ! ” he said doubtfully. 

“ Oh, no, sir,” said the man with a peculiar look. “ It 
is but to make a show ” 

The old man’s brows came down angrily. Then he 
nodded; and, leaning against the window, watched them. 

One of his own men came forward with a hammer and 
chisel. He placed the chisel at the edge of the cracked 
panel, where the informer directed, and struck a blow or 
two. There was the unmistakable dull sound of wood 
against stone — not an echo of resonance. The old man 
smiled grimly to himself. The man must be a fool if he 
thought there could be any hole there! . . . Well; he would 
let them do what they would here; and then forbid any 
further damage. . . . He wondered if the priest really 
were in the house or no. 

The two men had their heads together now, eyeing the 
crack they had made. . . . Then the informer said some- 
thing in a low voice that the old man could not hear; and 
the other, handing him the chisel and hammer, went out 
of the room, beckoning to one pf the two others that stppd 
waiting at the door. 


427 


COME BACK! COME ROPE! 

“ Well? ” sneered the old man. “ Have you caught your 
bird?^’ 

“ Not yet, sir.” 

He could hear the steps of the others in the next room; 
and then silence. 

“ What are they doing there ? ” he asked suddenly. 

“ Nothing, sir. ... I just bade a man wait on that 
side.” 

The man was once more inserting the chisel in the top of 
the wainscoting; then he presently began to drive it down 
with the hammer as if to detach it from the wall. 

Suddenly he stopped; and at the same instant the old 
man heard some faint, muffled noise, as of footsteps moving 
either in the wall or beyond it. 

“ What is that? ” 

The man said nothing; he appeared to be listening. 

“ What is that? ” demanded the other again, with a 
strange uneasiness at his heart. Was it possible, after all ! 
Then the man dropped his chisel and hammer and darted 
out and vanished. A sudden noise of voices and tramp- 
lings broke out somewhere out of sight. 

“ God’s blood ! ” roared the old man in anger and dis- 
may. “ I believe they have the poor devil I ” 

He ran out, two steps down the passage and in again at 
the door of the next room. It was a bedroom, with two 
beds side by side: a great press with open doors stood 
between the hearth and the window; and, in the midst of 
the floor, five men struggled and swayed together. The 
fifth was a bearded young man, well dressed; but he could 
not see his face. 

Then they had him tight; his hands were twisted behind 
his back; an arm was flung round his neck; and another 
man, crouching, had his legs embraced. He cried out once 


428 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


or twice. . . . The old man turned sick ... a great rush 
of blood seemed to be hammering in his ears and dilating 
his eyes. . . . He ran forward, tearing at the arm that was 
choking the prisoner’s throat, and screaming he knew not 
what. 

And it was then that he knew for certain that this was 
his son. 


CHAPTER VI 


I 

Robin drew a long breath as the door closed behind him. 
Then he went forward to the table, and sat on it, swinging 
his feet, and looking carefully and curiously round the room, 
so far as the darkness would allow him; his eyes had had 
scarcely time yet to become accustomed to the change 
from the brilliant sunshine outside to the gloom of the 
prison. It was his first experience of prison,, and, for the 
present, he was more interested than subdued by it. 

It seemed to him that a lifetime had passed since the 
early morning, up in the hills, when he had attempted to 
escape by the bedroom, and had been seized as he came 
out of the press. Of course, he had fought; it was his 
right and his duty; and he had not known the utter use- 
lessness of it, in that guarded house. He had known noth- 
ing of what was going forward. He had heard the en- 
trance of the searchers below, and now and again their 
footsteps. . . . Then he had seen the wainscoting begin 
to gape before him, and had understood that his only 
chance was by the way he had entered. Then, as he had 
caught sight of his father, he had ceased his struggles. 

He had not said one word to him. The shock was com- 
plete and unexpected. He had seen the old man stagger 
back and sink on the bed. Then he had been hurried 
from the room and downstairs. As the party came into 
the buttery entrance, there had been a great clamour; the 

429 


430 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


man on guard at the hall doors had run forward; the doors 
had opened suddenly and Marjorie had come out, with a 
surge of faces behind her. But to her, too, he had said 
nothing; he had tried to smile; he was still faint and sick 
from the fight upstairs. But he had been pushed out into 
the air, where he saw the horses waiting, and round the 
corner of the house into an out-building, and there he had 
had time to recover. 

It was strange how little religion had come to his aid 
during that hour of waiting; and, indeed, during the long 
and weary ride to Derby. He had tried to pray ; but he had 
had no consolation, such as he supposed must surely come 
to all who suffered for Christ. It had been, instead, the 
tiny things that absorbed liis attention; the bundle of hay 
in the corner; an ancient pitch-fork; the heads of his 
guards outside the little barred window; the sound of their 
voices talking. Later, when a man had come out from the 
house, and looked in at his door, telling him that they must 
start in ten minutes, and giving him a hunch of bread to 
eat, it had been the way the man’s eyebrows grew over his 
nose, and the creases of his felt hat, to which he gave his 
mind. Somewhere, far beneath in himself, he knew that 
there were other considerations and memories and move- 
ments, that were even fears and hopes and desires; but he 
could not come at these; he was as a man struggling to 
dive, held up on the surface by sheets of cork. He knew 
that his father was in that house; that it was his father 
who had been the means of taking him; that Marjorie was 
there — yet these facts were as tales read in a book. So, 
too, with his faith; his lips repeated words now and then; 
but God was as far from him and as inconceivably unreal, 
as is the thought of sunshine and a garden to a miner 
freezing painlessly in the dark. . . . 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


4S1 


In the same state he was led out again presently, and 
set on a horse. And while a man attaehed one foot to the 
other by a cord beneath the horse’s belly, he looked like a 
child at the arched doorway of the house; at a patch of 
lichen that was beginning to spread above the lintel; at 
the open window of the room above. 

He vaguely desired to speak with Marjorie again; he 
even asked the man who was tying his feet whether he 
might do so ; but he got no answer. A group of men watched 
him from the door, and he noticed that they were silent. 
He wondered if it were the tying of his feet in which they 
were so much absorbed. 

Little by little, as they rode, this oppression began to 
lift. Half a dozen times he determined to speak with the 
man who rode beside him and held his horse by a leading 
rein; and each time he did not speak. Neither did any 
man speak to him. Another man rode behind; and a dozen 
or so went on foot. He could hear them talking together 
in low voices. 

He was finally roused by his companion’s speaking. He 
had noticed the man look at him now and again strangely 
and not unkindly. 

“ Is it true that you are a son of Mr. Audrey, sir ? ” 

He was on the point of saying “ Yes,” when his mind 
seemed to come back to him as clear as an awakening from 
sleep. He understood that he must not identify himself 
if lie could help it. He had been told at Rheims that silence 
was best in such matters. 

“ Mr. Audrey? ” he said. “ The magistrate? ” 

The man nodded. He did not seem an unkindly person- 
age at all. Then he smiled. 

“Well, well,” he Said. “Less said ” 


432 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


He broke off and began to whistle. Then he interrupted 
himself once more. 

“ He was still in his fit,” he said, “ when we came away ? 
Mistress Manners was with him. 

Intelligence was flowing back in Robin’s brain like a 
tide. It seemed to him that he perceived things with an 
extraordinary clearness and rapidity. He understood he 
must show no dismay or horror of any kind; he must carry 
himself easily and detachedly. 

“ In a fit, was he ^ ” 

The other nodded. 

“ I am arrested on his warrant, then? And on what 
charge ? ” 

The man laughed outright. 

“ That’s too good,” he said. “ Why, we have a bundle of 
popery on the horse behind! It was all in the hiding- 
hole!” 

“ I am supposed to be a priest, then ? ” said Robin, with 
admirable disdain. 

Again the man laughed. 

“ They will have some trouble in proving that,” said 
Robin viciously. 

He learned presently whither they were going. He was 
right in thinking it to be Derby. There he was to be 
handed over to the gaoler. The trial would probably come 
on at the Michaelmas assizes, five or six weeks hence. He 
would have leave to communicate with a lawyer when he 
was once safely bestowed there; but whether or no his 
lawyer or any other visitors would be admitted to him was 
a matter for the magistrates. 

They ate as they rode, and reached Derby in the after- 
noon. 

At the very outskirts the peculiar nature of this caval- 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


433 


cade was observed; and by the time that they came within 
sight of the market-square a considerable mob was hustling 
along on all sides. There were a few cries raised. Robin 
could not distinguish the words, but it seemed to him as 
if some were raised for him as well as against him. He 
kept his head somewhat down; he thought it better to risk 
no complications that might arise should he be recognised. 

As they drew nearer the market-place the progress be- 
came yet slower, for the crowd seemed suddenly and ab- 
normally swelled. There was a great shouting of voices, 
too, in front, and the smell of burning came distinctly on 
the breeze. The man riding beside Robin turned his head 
and called out; and in answer one of the others riding be- 
hind pushed his horse up level with the other two, so that 
the prisoner had a guard on either side. A few steps 
further, and another order was issued, followed by the 
pressing up of the men that went on foot so as to form a 
complete square about the three riders. 

Robin put a question, but the men gave him no answer. 
He could see that they were preoccupied and anxious. 
Then, as step by step they made their way forward and 
gained the corner of the market-place, he saw the reason 
of these precautions ; for the whole square was one pack of 
heads, except where, somewhere in the midst, a great bon- 
fire blazed in the sunlight. The noise, too, was deafening; 
drums were beating, horns blowing, men shouting aloud. 
From window after window leaned heads, and, as the party 
advanced yet further, they came suddenly in view of a 
scaffold hung with gay carpets and ribbons, on which 
a civil dignitary, in some official dress, was gesticulating. 

It was useless to ask a question; not a word could have 
been heard unless it were shouted aloud; and presently the 
din redoubled, for out of sight, round some corner, gun^ 


434 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


were suddenly shot off one after another; and the cheering 
grew shrill and piercing in contrast. 

As they came out at last^ without attracting any great 
attention, into the more open space at the entrance of Friar’s 
Gate, Robin turned again and asked what the matter was. 
It was plainly not himself, as he had at first almost be- 
lieved. 

The man turned an exultant face to him. 

“ It’s the Spanish fleet ! ” he said. “ There’s not a ship 
of it left, they say.” 

When they^ halted at the gate of the prison there was 
another pause, while the cord that tied his feet was cut, 
and he was helped from his horse, as he was stiff and con- 
strained from the long ride under such circumstances. He 
heard a roar of interest and abuse, and, perhaps, a little 
sympathy, from the part of the crowd that had followed, 
as the gate closed behind him. 

il 

As his eyes became better accustomed to the dark, he 
began to see what kind of a place it was in which he found 
himself. It was a square little room on the ground-floor, 
with a single, heavily-barred window, against which the 
dirt had collected in such quantities as to exclude almost 
all light. The floor was beaten earth, damp and uneven; 
the walls were built of stones and timber, and were drip- 
ping with moisture; there was a table and a stool in the 
centre of the room, and a dark heap in the corner. He 
examined this presently, and found it to be rotting hay 
covered with some kind of rug. The whole place smelled 
hideously foul. 

From far away outside came still the noise of cheering, 
heard as through wool, and the sharp reports of the cannon 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


435 


they were still firing. The Armada seemed very remote 
from him^ here in ward. Its destruction affected him now 
hardly at all, except for the worse, since an anti-Catholic 
reaction might very well follow. . . . He set himself, with 
scarcely an effort, to contemplate more personal matters. 

He was astonished that his purse had not been taken from 
him. He had been searched rapidly just now, in an outer 
passage, by a couple of men, one of whom he understood 
to be his gaoler; and a knife and a chain and his rosary 
had been taken from him. But the purse had been put 
back again. . . . He remembered presently that the pos- 
session of money made a considerable difference to a pris- 
oner’s comfort; but he determined to do as little as he was 
obliged in this way. He might need the money more 
urgently by and by. 

By the time that he had gone carefully round his prison- 
walls, even reaching up to the window and testing the bars, 
pushing as noiselessly as he could against the door, pacing 
the distances in every direction — he had, at the same time, 
once more arranged and rehearsed every piece of evidence 
that he possessed, and formed a number of resolutions. 

He was perfectly clear by now that his father had been 
wholly ignorant of the identity of the man he was after. 
The horror in the gasping face that he had seen so close to 
his own, above the strangling arm, set that beyond a doubt; 
the news of the fit into which his father had fallen con- 
firmed it. 

Next, he had been right in believing himself watched in 
the shepherd’s hut, and followed down from it. This hid- 
ing of his in the hills, the discovery of him in the hiding- 
hole, together with the vestments — these two things were 
the heaviest pieces of testimony against him. More remote 
testimony might be brought forward from his earlier ad- 


436 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


ventures — his presence at Fotheringay, his recognition 
by my lord’s man. But these were^ in themselves^ indffer- 
ent. 

His resolutions were few and simple. 

He would behave himself quietly in all ways: he would 
make no demand to see anyone; since he knew that what- 
ever was possible would be done for him by Marjorie. He 
would deny nothing and assert very little if he were brought 
before the n^agistrates. Finally, he would say, if he could, 
a dry mass every day; and observe the hours of prayer so 
far as he could. He had no books with him of any kind. 
But he could pray God for fortitude. 

Then he knelt down on the earth floor and said his first 
prayer in prison; the prayer that had rung so often in his 
mind since Mary herself had prayed it aloud on the scaf- 
fold; and Mr. Bourgoign had repeated it to him. 

“ As Thy arms, O Christ, were extended on the Cross ; 
even so receive me into the arms of Thy mercy, and blot 
out all my sins with Thy most precious Blood.” 


CHAPTER VII 


I 

There was a vast crowd in the market-place at Michaelmas 
to see the judges come — partly because there was always 
excitement at the visible majesty of the law; partly be- 
cause the tale of one at least of the prisoners had roused 
interest. It was a dramatic tale: he was first a seminary 
priest and a Derbyshire man (many remembered him riding 
as a little lad beside his father) ; he was, next, a runaway 
to Rheims for religion’s sake, when his father conformed; 
third, he had been taken in the house of Mistress Manners, 
to whom, report said, he had once been betrothed; last, 
he had been taken by his father himself. All this fur- 
nished matter for a quantity of conversation in the taverns ; 
and it was freely discussed by the sentimental whether 
or no, if the priest yielded and conformed, he would yet find 
Mistress Manners willing to wed him. 

Signs of the Armada rejoicings still survived in the 
market-place as the judges rode in. Streamers hung in 
the sunshine, rather bedraggled after so long, from the 
roof and pillars of the Guildhall, and a great smoke-black- 
ened patch between the conduit and the cross marked where 
the ox had been roasted. There was a deal of loyal cheer- 
ing as the procession went by; for these splendid person- 
ages on horseback stood to the mob for the power that had 
repelled the enemies of England; and her Grace’s name 
was received with enthusiasm. Behind the judges and their 
escort came a cavalcade of riders — gentlemen, grooms, serv- 
ants, and agents of all sorts. But not a Derby man no- 

437 


438 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


ticed or recognised a thin gentleman who rode modestly in 
the midst, with a couple of personal servants on either 
side of him. It was not until the visitors had separated 
to the various houses and inns where they were to be 
lodged, and the mob was dispersing home again, that it 
began to be rumoured everywhere that Mr. Topcliffe was 
come again to Derby on a special mission. 

II 

The tidings came to Marjorie as she leaned back in her 
chair in Mr. Riddell’s parlour and listened to the last 
shoutings. 

She had been in town now three days. 

Ever since the capture she had been under guard in her 
own house till three days ago. Four men had been billeted 
upon her, not, indeed, by the orders of Mr. Audrey, since 
Mr. Audrey was in no condition to control affairs any 
longer, but by the direction of Mr. Columbell, who had 
himself ridden out to take charge at Booth’s Edge, when 
the news of the arrest had come, with the prisoner him- 
self, to the city. It was he, too, who had seen to the re- 
moval of Mr. Audrey a week later, when he had recovered 
from the weakness caused by the fit sufficiently to travel 
as far as Derby; for it was thought better that the magis- 
trate who had effected the capture should be accessible 
to the examining magistrates. It was, of course, lamen- 
table, said Mr. Columbell, that father anr son should have 
been brought into such relations, and he would do all that 
he could to relieve Mr. Audrey from any painful task in 
which they could do without him. But her Grace’s busi- 
ness must be done, and he had had special messages from 
my lord Shrewsbury himself that the prisoner must be 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


439 

dealt with sternly. It was believed, wrote my lord, that 
Mr. Alban, as he called himself, had a good deal more 
against him than the mere fact of being a seminary priest: 
it was thought that he had been involved in the Babington 
plot, and had at least once had access to the Queen of the 
Scots since the fortunate failure of the conspiracy. 

All this, then, Marjorie knew from Mr. Biddell, who 
seemed always to know everything; but it was not until 
the evening on which the judges arrived that she learned 
the last and extreme measures that would be taken to es- 
tablish these suspicions. She had ridden openly to Derby 
so soon as the news came from there that for the present 
she might be set at liberty. 

The lawyer came into the darkening room as the square 
outside began to grow quiet, and Marjorie opened her 
eyes to see who it was. 

He said nothing at first, but sat down close beside her. 
He knew she must be told, but he hated the telling. He 
carried a little paper in his hand. He would begin with 
that little bit of good news first, he said to himself. 

“ Well, mistress,” he said, “ I have the order at last. 
We are to see him to-night. It is ‘ for Mr. Biddell and a 
friend.^ ” 

She sat up, and a little vitality came back to her face; 
for a moment she almost looked as she had looked in the 
early summer. 

** To-night.^ ” she said. “ And when ” 

“ He will not be brought before my lords for three or 
four days yet. There is a number of cases to come before 
his. It will give us those two or three days, at least, to 
prepare our case.” 

He spoke heavily and dejectedly. Up to the present he 
had been utterly refused permission to see his client; and 
though he knew the outlines of the affair well enough, he 


440 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


knew very little of the thousand details on which the priest 
would ask his advice. It was a hopeless affair^ it appeared 
to the lawyer, in any case. And now, with this last piece 
of tidings, he knew that there was, indeed, nothing to be 
said except words of encouragement. 

He listened with the same heavy air to Mistress Man- 
ners as she said a word or two as to what must be spoken 
of to Robin. She was very quiet and collected, and talked 
to the point. But he said nothing. 

“ What is the matter, sir } ” she said. 

He lifted his eyes to hers. There was still enough light 
from the windows for him to see her eyes, and that there 
was a spark in them that had not been there just now. 
And it was for him to extinguish it. . . . He gripped his 
courage. 

“ I have had worse news than all,” he said. 

Her lips moved, and a vibration went over her face. Her 
eyes blinked, as at a sudden light. 

” Yes.?” 

He put his hand tenderly on her arm. 

“ You must be courageous,” he said. “ It is the worst 
news that ever came to me. It concerns one who is come 
from London to-day, and rode in with my lords.” 

She could not speak, but her great eyes entreated him 
to finish her misery. 

“ Yes,” he said, still pressing his hand on to her arm. 
“ Yes; it is Mr. Topeliffe who is come.” 

He felt the soft muscles harden like steel. . . . There 
was no sound except the voices talking in the square and 
the noise of footsteps across the pavements. He could not 
look at her. 

Then he heard her draw a long breath and breathe it 
out again, and her taut muscles relaxed. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


441 


“We . . . we are all in Christ’s hands/’ she said. . . . 
“ We must tell him.” 


Ill 

It appeared to the girl as if she were moving on a kind of 
set stage, with every movement and incident designed be- 
forehand, in a play that was itself a kind of destiny — above 
all, when she went at last into Robin’s cell and saw him 
standing there, and found it to be that in which so long 
ago she had talked with Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert. . . . 

The great realities were closing round her, as irresistible 
as wheels and bars. There was scarcely a period in her 
life, scarcely a voluntary action of hers for good or evil, 
that did not furnish some part of this vast machine in 
whose grip both she and her friend were held so fast. No 
calculation on her part could have contrived so complete a 
climax; yet hardly a calculation that had not gone astray 
from that end to which she had designed it. It was as 
if some monstrous and ironical power had been beneath 
and about her all her life long, using those thoughts and 
actions that she had intended in one way to the develop- 
ment of another. 

First, it was she that had first turned her friend’s mind 
to the life of a priest. Had she submitted to natural causes, 
she would have been his wife nine years ago; they would 
have been harassed no doubt and troubled, but no more. 
It was she again that had encouraged his return to Derby- 
shire. If it had not been for that, and for the efforts she 
had made to do what she thought good work for God, he 
might have been sent elsewhere. It was in her house that 
he had been taken, and in the very place she had designed 
for his safety. If she had but sent him on, as he wished, 
back to the hills again, he might never have been taken at 


442 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


all. These, and a score of other thoughts, had raced con- 
tinually through her mind; she felt even as if she were 
responsible for the manner of his taking, and for the horror 
that it had been his father who had accomplished it; if 
she had said more, or less, in the hall on that dark morning ; 
if she had not swooned; if she had said bravely: “ It is 
your son, sir, who is here,” all might have been saved. 
And now it was Topcliffe who was come — (and she knew 
all that this signified) — the very man at whose mere bodily 
presence she had sickened in the court of the Tower. And, 
last, it was she who had to tell Robin of this. 

So tremendous, however, had been the weight of these 
thoughts upon her, crowned and clinched (so to say) by 
finding that the priest was even in the same cell as that in 
which she had visited the traitor, that there was no room 
any more for bitterness. Even as she waited, with Mr. 
Biddell behind her, as the gaoler fumbled with the keys, 
she was aware that the last breath of resentment had been 
drawn. ... It was, indeed, a monstrous Power that had 
so dealt with her. ... It was none other than the Will of 
God, plain at last. 

She knelt down for the priest’s blessing, without speak- 
ing, as the door closed, and. Mr. Biddell knelt behind her. 
Then she rose and went forward to the stool and sat upon it. 

He was hardly changed at all. He looked a little white 
and drawn in the wavering light of the flambeau; but his 
clothes were orderly and clean, and his eyes as bright and 
resolute as ever. 

“ It is a great happiness to see you,” he said, smiling, and 
then no more compliments. 

“ And what of my father ? ” he added instantly. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


443 


She told him. Mr. Audrey was in Derby, still sick from 
his fit. He was in Mr. ColumbelFs house. She had not 
seen him. 

Robin,” she said (and she used the old name, utterly 
unknowing that she did so), “ we must speak with Mr. 
Riddell presently about your case. But there is a word or 
two I have to say first. We can have two hours here, if 
you wish it.” 

Robin put his hands behind him on to the table and 
jumped lightly, so that he sat on it, facing her. 

“ If you will not sit on the table, Mr. Riddell, I fear 
there is only that block of wood.” 

He pointed to a block of a tree set on end. It served 
him, laid flat, as a pillow. The lawyer went across to it. 

“ The judges, I hear, are come to-night,” said the priest. 

She bowed. 

“Yes; but your case will not be up for three or four 
days yet.” 

“ Why, then, I shall have time-- ” 

She lifted her hand sharply a little to check him. 

“ You will not have much time,” she said, and paused 
again. A sharp contraction came and went in the muscles 
of her throat. It was as if a hand gripped her there, re- 
laxed, and gripped again. She put up her own hand 
desperately to tear at her collar. 

“ Why, but ” began the priest. 

She could bear it no more. His resolute cheerfulness, 
his frank astonishment, were like knives to her. She gave 
one cry. 

“ Topcliffe is come . . . Topcliffe! ...” she cried. 
Then she flung her arm across the table and dropped her 
face on it. No tears came from her eyes, but tearing sobs 
shook and tormented her. 


444 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


It was quite quiet after she had spoken. Even in her 
anguish she knew that. The priest did not stir from where 
he sat a couple of feet away; only the swinging of his feet 
ceased. She drove down her convulsions; they rose again; 
she drove them down once more. Then the tears surged 
up, her whole being relaxed, and she felt a hand on her 
shoulder. 

“ Marjorie,” said the grave voice, as steady as it had 
ever been, “Marjorie. This is what we looked for, is it 
not? . . . Topcliffe is come, is he? Well, let him come. 
He or another. It is for this that we have all looked since 
the beginning. Christ His Grace is strong enough, is it 
not? It hath been strong enough for many, at least; and 
He will not surely take it from me who need it so 
much. . . .” (He spoke in pauses, but his voice never 
faltered.) “ I have prayed for that grace ever since I 
have been here. . . . He hath given me great peace in 
this place. ... I think He will give it me to the end. . . . 
You must pray, my . . . my child; you must not cry like 
that.” • -H 

(She lifted her agonized face for a moment, then she let 
it fall again. It seemed as if he knew the very thoughts 
of her.) 

“ This all seems very perfect to me,” he went on. “ It 
was yourself who first turned me to this life, and you knew 
surely what you did. I knew, at least, all the while, I 
think; and I have never ceased to thank God. And it was 
through your hands that the letter came to me to go to 
Fotheringay. And it was in your house that I was taken. 
. . . And it was Mr. Maine’s beads that they found on me 
when they searched me here — the pair of beads you gave 
me.” 

Again she stared at him, blind and bewildered. 

He went on steadily: 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


445 


“ And now it is you again who bring me the first news of 
my passion. It is yourself, first and last, under God, that 
have brought me all these graces and crosses. And I thank 
you with all my heart. . . . But you must pray for me to 
the end, and after it, too.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


I 

** Water^” said a sharp voice, pricking through the enor- 
mous thickness of the bloodshot dark that had come down 
on him. There followed a sound of floods; then a sense of 
sudden coolness, and he opened his eyes once more, and 
became aware of unbearable pain in arms and feet. Again 
the whirling dark, striped with blood colour, fell on him 
like a blanket; again the sound of waters falling and the 
sense of coolness, and again he opened his eyes. 

For a minute or two it was all that he could do to hold 
himself in consciousness. It appeared to him a necessity 
to do so. He could see a smoke-stained roof of beams 
and rafters, and on these he fixed his eyes, thinking that he 
could hold himself so, as by thin, wiry threads of sight, 
from falling again into the pit where all was black or 
blood-colour. The pain was appalling, but he thought he 
had gripped it at last, and could hold it so, like a wrestler. 

As the pain began to resolve itself into throbs and stabs, 
from the continuous strain in which at first it had shown 
itself — a strain that was like a shrill horn blowing, or a 
blaze of bluish light — he began to see more, and to under- 
stand a little. There were four or five faces looking down 
on him: one was the face of a man he had seen somewhere 
in an inn ... it was at Fotheringay; it was my lord 
Shrewsbury’s man. Another was a lean face; a black hat 
came and went behind it; the lips were drawn in a soft of 
smile, so that he could see the teeth. . . . Then he perceived 
next that he himself was lyin^ in a kind of shallow trough 

446 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


447 

of wood upon the floor. He could see his bare feet raised 
a little and tied with cords. 

Then^ one by one, these sights fitted themselves into one 
another and made sense. He remembered that he was in 
Derby gaol — not in his own cell; that the lean face was of 
a man called Topcliffe; that a physician was there as well 
as the others ; that they had been questioning him on various 
points, and that some of these points he had answered, 
while others he had not, and must not. Some of them con- 
cerned her Grace of the Scots. . . . These he had answered. 
Then, again, association came back. . . . 

“ As Thy arms, O Christ . . .” he whispered. 

“ Now then,” came the sharp voice in his ear, so close 
and harsh as to distress him. “ These questions again. . . . 
Were there any other places besides at Padley and Booth’s 
Edge, in the parish of Hathersage, where you said mass } ” 

. . . O Christ, were extended on the Cross ” began 

the tortured man dreamily. “ Ah-h-h ! ” . . . 

It was a scream, whispered rather than shrieked, that 
was torn from him by the sharpness of the agony. His 
body had lifted from the floor without will of his own, 
twisting a little; and what seemed as strings of fiery pain 
had shot upwards from his feet and downwards from his 
wrists as the roller was suddenly jerked again. He hung 
there perhaps ten or fifteen seconds, conscious only of the 
blinding pain — questions, questioners, roof and faces all 
gone and drowned again in a whirling tumult of darkness 
and red streaks. The sweat poured again suddenly from 
his whole body. . . . Then again he sank relaxed upon the 
floor, and the pulses beat in his head, and he thought that 
Marjorie and her mother and his own father were all look- 
ing at him. . . . 

He heard presently the same voice talking: 

“ — and answer the questions that are put to you. . . . 


448 COME RACK! COME ROPE! 

Now then, we will begin the others, if it please you better. 

. . . In what month was it that you first became privy to 
the plot against her Grace ” 

“ Wait ! whispered the priest. “ Wait, and I will 
answer that.” (He understood that there was a trap here. 
The question had been framed differently last time. But 
his mind was Ml a- whirl; and he feared he might answer 
wrongly if he could not collect himself. He still wondered 
why so many friends of his were in the room — even Father 
Campion. . . .) 

He drew a breath again presently, and tried to speak; 
but his voice broke like a shattered trumpet, and he could 
not command it. . . . He must whisper, 

“ It was in August, I think. ... I think it was August, 
two years ago.” . . . 

“ August . . . you mean May or April.” 

“No; it was August. ... At least, all that I know of 

the plot was when . . . when ” (His thoughts became 

confused again; it was like strings of wool, he thought, 
twisted violently together ; a strand snapped now and again. 
He made a violent effort and caught an end as it was 
slipping away.) “It was in August, I think; the day that 

Mr. Babington fled, that he wrote to me ; and sent me ” 

(He paused: he became aware that here, too, lurked a trap 
if he were to say he had seen Mary; he would surely be 
asked what he had seen her for, and his priesthood might 
be so proved against him. . . . He could not remember 
whether that had been proved; and so . . . would Father 
Campion advise him perhaps whether . . .) 

The voice jarred again; and startled him into a flash of 
coherence. He thought he saw a way out. 

“ Well? ” snapped the voice. “ Sent you? . . . Sent you 
whither ? ” 

“ Sent me to Chartley ; where I saw her Grace . . . her 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 44P 

Grace of the Scots; and . . . ' As Thy arms, O 
Christ . . / 

Ndw then ; now then ! ... So you saw her Grace ? 

And what was that for.^ 

I saw her Grace . . . and . . . and told her what Mr. 
Babington had told me.” 

“What was that, then.?” 

“ That . . . that he was her servant till death ; and . . . 
and a thousand if he had them. And so, ‘ As Thy arms, 
O^ ’ ” 

“ Water,” barked the voice. 

Again came the rush as of cataracts; and a sensation 
of drowning. There followed an instant’s glow of life; 
and then the intolerable pain came back; and the heavy, 
red-streaked darkness. . . . 


II 

He found himself, after some period, lying more easily. 
He could not move hand or foot. His body only appeared 
to live. From his shoulders to his thighs he was alive; 
the rest was nothing. But he opened his eyes and saw that 
his arms were laid by his side; and that he was no longer 
in the wooden trough. He wondered at his hands; he 
wondered even if they were his . . . they were of an un- 
usual colour and bigness; and there was something like a 
tight-fitting bracelet round each wrist. Then he perceived 
that he was shirtless and hoseless; and that the bracelets 
were not bracelets, but rings of swollen flesh. But there 
was no longer any pain or even sensation in them; and 
he was aware that his mouth glowed as if he had drunk 
ardent spirits. 

He was considering all this, slowly, like a child contem- 
plating a new toy. Then there came something between 


450 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


him and the light; he saw a couple of faces eyeing him. 
Then the voice began again_, at first confused and buzzing, 
then articulate; and he remembered. 

“ Now, then,” said the voice, “ you have had but a taste 
of it. . . .” (“A taste of it; a taste of it.” The phrase 

repeated itself like the catch of a song. . . . When he re- 
gained his attention, the sentence had moved on.) 

“ . . . these questions. I will put them to you again 
from the beginning. You will give your answer to each. 
And if my lord is not satisfied, we must try again.” 

“ My lord ! ” thought the priest. He rolled his eyes 
round a little further. (He dared not move his head; the 
sinews of his throat burned like red-hot steel cords at the 
thought of it.) And he saw a little table floating some- 
where in the dark ; a candle burned on it ; and a melancholy 
face with dreamy eyes was brightly illuminated. . . . That 
was my lord Shrewsbury, he considered. . . . 

“ . . . in what month that you first became privy to the 
plot against her Grace ” 

(Sense was coming back to him again now. He remem- 
bered what he had said just now.) 

“ It was in August,” he whispered, “ in August, I think; 
two years ago. Mr. Babington wrote to me of it.” 

“ And you went to the Queen of the Scots, you say ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And what did you there ? ” 

“ I gave the message.” 

“ What was that ? ” 

“ . . . That Mr. Babington was her servant always ; that 
he regretted nothing, save that he had failed. He begged 
her to pray for his soul, and for all that had been with him 
in the enterprise.” 

(It appeared to him that he was astonishingly voluble, 
all at once. He reflected that he must be careful.) 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


451 


“ And what did she say to that? ” 

“ She declared herself guiltless of the plot . . . that she 
knew nothing of it; and that ” 

“Now then; now then. You expect my lord to believe 
that? ” 

“ I do not know. . . . But it was what was said.” 

“ And you profess that you knew nothing of the plot till 
then? ” 

“ I knew nothing of it till then,” whispered the priest 
steadily. “ But ” 

(A face suddenly blotted out more of the light.) 

“ Yes? ” 

“ Anthony — I mean Mr. Babington — had spoken to me 
a great while before — in ... in some village inn. ... I 
forget where. It was when I was a lad. He asked whether 
I would join in some enterprise. He did not say what it 
was. . . . But I thought it to be against the Queen of 
England. . . . And I would not.” . . . 

He closed his eyes again. There had begun a slow heat 
of pain in ankles and wrists, not wholly unbearable, and 
a warmth began to spread in his body. A great shudder or 
two shook him. The voice said something he could not 
hear. Then a metal rim was pressed to his mouth; and 
a stream of something at once icy and fiery ran into his 
mouth and out at the corners. He swallowed once or twice ; 
and his senses came back. 

“You do not expect us to believe all that!” came the 
voice. 

“ It is the truth, for all that,” murmured the priest. 

The next question came sudden as a shot fired: 

“You were at Fotheringay ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ In what house ? ” 

“ I was in the inn— the * New Inn,’ I think it is.” 


452 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


“And you spoke with her Grace again?"" 

“No; I could not get at her. But — — "" 

“ Well? "" 

“ I was in the court of the castle when her Grace was 
executed.’" 

There was a murmur of voices. He thought that some- 
one had moved over to the table where my lord sat; but 
he could not move his eyes again, the labour was too 
great- 

“ Who was with you in the inn — as your friend, I 
mean ? "’ 

“ A ... a young man was with me. His name was 
Merton. He is in France, I think.” 

“ And he knew you to be a priest? ” came the voice with- 
out an instant’s hesitation. 

“ Why ’" Then he stopped short, just in time. 

“ Well? "" 

“ How should he think that? ’" asked Robin. 

There was a laugh somewhere. Then the voice went on, 
almost good-humouredly. 

“ Mr. Alban; what is the use of this fencing? You were 
taken in a hiding-hole with the very vestments at your feet. 
We know you to be a priest. We are not seeking to entrap 
you in that ,for there is no need. But there are other mat- 
ters altogether which we must have from you. You have 
been made priest beyond the seas, in Rheims ” 

“ I swear to you that I was not,” whispered Robin in- 
stantly and eagerly, thinking he saw a loophole. 

“ Well, then, at ChMons, or Douay: it matters not where. 
That is not our affair to-day. All that will be dealt with 
before my lords at the Assizes. But what we must have 
from you now is your answer to some other questions.” 

“ Assuming me to be a priest ? ” 

“ Mr. Alban, I will talk no more on that point. I tell 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 453 

you we know it. But we must have answers on other 
points. I will come back to Merton presently. These are 
the questions. I will read them through to you. Then 
we will deal with them one by one.” 

There was the rustle of a paper. An extraordinary de- 
sire for sleep came down on the priest; it was only by 
twitching his head a little, and causing himself acute shoots 
of pain in his neck that he could keep himself awake. He 
knew that he must not let his attention wander again. He 
remembered clearly how that Father Campion was dead, 
and that Marjorie could not have been here just now. . . . 
He must take great care not to become so much confused 
again. 

“ The first question,” read the voice slowly, “ is. Whether 
you have said mass in other places beside Padley and the 
manor at Booth’s Edge. We know that you must have 
done so; but we must have the names of the places, and of 
the parties present, so far as you can remember them. 

“The second question is, the names of all those other 
priests with whom you have spoken in England, since you 
came from Rheims; and the names of all other students, 
not yet priests, or scarcely, whom you knew at Rheims, 
and who are for England. 

“ The third question is, the names of all those whom you 
know to be friends of Mr. John FitzHerbert, Mr. Bassett 
and Mr. Fenton — not being priests; but Papists. 

“ These three questions will do as a beginning. W'hen 
you have answered these, there is a number more. Now, 
sir.” 

The last two words were rapped out sharply. Robin 
opened his eyes. 

“ As to the first two questions,” he whispered. “ These 


454 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


assume that I am a priest myself. Yet that is what you 
have to prove against me. The third question concerns 
. . . concerns my loyalty to my friends. But I will tell 
you ” 

“ Yes.^ ” (The voice was sharp and eager.) 

“ I will tell you the names of two friends of each of those 
gentlemen you have named.” 

A pen suddenly scratched on paper. He could not see 
who held it. 

“ Yes.^ ” said the voice again. 

“ Well, sir. The names of two of the friends of Mr. 
FitzHerbert are, Mr. Bassett and Mr. Fenton. The 
names ” 

“Bah!” (The word sounded like the explosion of a 

gun.) 

“ You are playing with us ” 

“ The names,” murmured the priest slowly, “ of two of 
Mr. Fenton’s friends are Mr. FitzHerbert and ” 

A face, upside-down, thrust itself suddenly almost into 
his. He could feel the hot breath on his forehead. 

“ See here, Mr. Alban. You are fooling us. Do you 
think this is a Christmas game.^ I tell you it is not yet 
three o’clock. There are three hours more yet ” 

A smooth, sad voice interrupted. (The reversed face 
vanished.) 

“ You have threatened the prisoner,” it said, “ but you 
have not yet told him the alternative.” 

“ No, my lord. . . . Yes, my lord. Listen, Mr. Alban. 
My lord here says that if you will answer these questions 
he will use his influence on your behalf. Your life is for- 
feited, as you know very well. There is not a dog’s chance 
for you. Yet, if you will but answer these three questions 

— and no more (No more, my lord?) — Yes; these three 

questions and no more, my lord will use his influence for 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


455 


you. He can promise nothing, he says, but that; but my 
lord’s influence — well, we need say no more on that point. 
If you refuse to answer, on the other hand, there are yet 
three hours more to-day ; there is all to-morrow, and the 
next day. And, after that, your case will be before my lords 
at the Assizes. You have had but a taste of what we can 
do. . . . And then, sir, my lord does not wish to be 
harsh. . . 

There was a pause. 

Robin was counting up the hours. It was three o’clock 
now. Then he had been on the rack, with intervals, since 
nine o’clock. That was six hours. There was but half 
that again for to-day. Then would come the night. He 
need not consider further than that. . . . But he must 
guard his tongue. It might speak, in spite 

“Well, Mr. Alban?” 

He opened his eyes. 

“ Well, sir?” 

“ Which is it to be? ” 

The priest smiled and closed his eyes again. If he could 
but fix his attention on the mere pain, he thought, and re- 
fuse utterly to consider the way of escape, he might be 
able to keep his unruly tongue in check. 

“ You will not, then ? ” 

“No.” 

The appalling pain ran through him again like fiery 
snakes of iron — from wrist to shoulders, from ankles to 
thighs, as the hands seized him and lifted him. . . . 

There was a moment or two or relief as he sank down 
once more into the trough of torture. He could feet that his 
feet were being handled, but it appeared as if nothing 
touched his flesh. He gave a great sighing moan as his 


456 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


arms were drawn back over his head; and the sweat poured 
again from all over his body. 

Then, as the cords tightened: 

“ As Thy arms, O Christ, were extended . . he whis- 
pered. 


CHAPTER IX 


I 

A GREAT murmuring crowd filled every flat spot of ground 
and pavement and parapet. They stood even on the balus- 
trade of St. Mary’s Bridge; there were fringes of them 
against the sky on the edges of roofs a quarter of a mile 
away. No flat surface was to be seen anywhere except on 
the broad reach of the river, and near the head of the 
bridge, in the circular space, ringed by steel caps and 
pike-points, where the gallows and ladder rose. Close be- 
side them a column of black smoke rose heavily into the 
morning air, bellying away into the clear air. A continual 
steady low murmur of talking went up continually. 

There had been no hanging within the memory of any 
that had roused such interest. Derbyshire men had been 
hung often enough; a criminal usually had a dozen friends 
at least in the crowd to whom he shouted from the ladder. 
Seminary priests had been executed often enough now to 
have destroyed the novelty of it for the mob; why, three 
had been done to death here little more than two months 
ago in this very place. They gave no sport, certainly ; they 
died too quietly ; and what perculiar interest there was in it 
lay in the contemplation of the fact that it was for religion 
that they died. Gentlemen, too, had T)een hanged here now 
and then — polished persons, dressed in their best, who took 
off their outer clothes carefully, and in one or two cases 
had handed them to a servant; gentlemen with whom the 
sheriff shook hands before the end, who eyed the mob im- 

457 


458 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


perturbably or affected even not to be aware of the pres- 
ence of the vulgar. But this hanging was sublime. 

First, he was a Derbyshire man, a seminary priest and a 
gentleman — three points. Yet this was no more than the 
groundwork of his surpassing interest. For, next, he had 
been racked beyond belief. It was for three days before 
his sentence that Mr. Topcliffe himself had dealt with him. 
(Yes, Mr. Topcliffe was the tall man that had his rooms) 
in the market-place, and always went abroad with two 
servants. . . . He was to have Padley, too, it was said, as 
a reward for all his zeal.) Of course, young Mr. Audrey 
(for that was his real name — not Alban; that was a Popish 
alias such as they all used) — Mr. Audrey had not been on 
the rack for the whole of every day. But he had been in 
the rack-house eight or nine hours on the first day, four the 
second, and six or seven the third. And he had not answered 
one single question differently from the manner in which he 
had answered it before ever he had been on the rack at 
all. (There was a dim sense of pride with regard to this, 
in many Derbyshire minds. A Derbyshire man, it ap- 
peared, was more than a match for even a Londoner and a 
sworn servant of her Grace.) It was said that Mr. Audrey 
would have to be helped up the ladder, even though he had 
not been racked for a whole week since his sentence. 

Next, the trial itself had been full of interest. A Papist 
priest was, of course, fair game. (Why, the Spanish Ar- 
mada itself had been full of them, it was said, all come to 
subdue England. . . . Well, they had had their bellyful of 
salt water and English iron by now.) But this Papisher 
had hit back and given sport. He had flatly refused to be 
caught, though the questions were swift and subtle enough 
to catch any clerk. Certainly he had not denied that he 
was a priest ; but he had said that that was what the Crown 
must prove: he was not there as a witness, he had said, but 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


459 


as a prisoner; he had even entreated them to respect their 
own legal dignities ! But there had been a number of things 
against him^ and even if none of these had been proved, 
still, the mere sum of them was enough; there could be no 
smoke without fire, said the proverb-quoters. It was al- 
leged that he had been privy to the plot against the Queen 
(the plot of young Mr. Babington, who had sold his house 
down there a week or two only before his arrest) ; he had 
denied this, but he had allowed that he had spoken with 
her Grace immediately after the plot; and this was a highly 
suspicious circumstance: if he allowed so much as this, the 
rest might be safely presumed. Again, it was said that 
he had had part in attempts to free the Queen of the 
Scots, even from Fotheringay itself; and had been in the 
castle court, with a number of armed servants, at the very 
time of her execution. Again, if he allowed that he had 
been present, even though he denied the armed servants, 
the rest might be presumed. Finally, since he were a 
priest, and had seen her Grace at a time when there was 
no chaplain allowed to her, it was certain that he must have 
ministered their Popish superstitions to her, and this was 
neither denied nor affirmed: he had said to this that they 
had yet to prove him a priest at all. The very spectacle 
of the trial, too, had been remarkable; for, first, there was 
the extraordinary appearance of the prisoner, bent double 
like an old man, with the face of a dead one, though he 
could not be above thirty years old at the very most; and 
then there was the unusual number of magistrates present 
in court besides the judges, and my lord Shrewsbury him- 
self, who had presided at the racking. It was one of my 
lord’s men, too, that had helped to identify the prisoner. 

But the supreme interest lay in even more startling cir- 
cumstances — in the history of Mistress Manners, who was 
present through the trial with Mr. Biddell the lawyer, and 


460 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


who had obtained at least two interviews with the prisoner, 
one before the torture and the other after sentence. It 
was in Mistress Manners’ house at Booth’s Edge that the 
priest had been taken; and it was freely rumoured that al- 
though Mr. Audrey had once been betrothed to her, yet 
that she had released and sent him herself to Rheims, and 
all to end like this. And yet she could bear to come and 
see him again; and, it was said, would be present some- 
where in the crowd even at his death. 

Finally, the tale of how the priest had been taken by his 
own father — old Mr. Audrey of Matstead — him that was 
now lying sick in Mr. Columbell’s house — this put the 
crown on all the rest. A hundred rumours flew this way and 
that: one said that the old man had known nothing of his 
son’s presence in the country, but had thought him to be still 
in foreign parts. Another, that he knew him to be in 
England, but not that he was in the county; a third, that 
he knew very well who it was in the Fouse he went to search, 
and had searched it and taken him on purpose to set his 
own loyalty beyond question. Opinions differed as to the 
propriety of such an action. . . . 

So then the great crowd of heads — men from all the 
countryside, from farms and far-off cottages and the wild 
hills, mingling with the townsfolk — this crowd, broken up 
into levels and patches by river and houses and lanes, moved 
to and fro in the October sunshine, and sent up, with the 
column of smoke that eddied out from beneath the bubbling 
tar-cauldron by the gallows, a continual murmur of talking, 
like the sound of slow-moving wheels of great carts. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


461 


II 

He felt dazed and blind^ yet with a kind of lightness too 
as he came out of the gaol-gate into that packed mass of 
faces, held back by guards from the open space where the 
horse and the hurdle waited. A dozen persons or so were 
within the guards; he knew several of them by sight; two 
or three were magistrates ; another was an officer ; two were 
ministers with their Bibles. 

It is hard to say whether he were afraid. Fear was there, 
indeed — he knew well enough that in his case, at any rate, 
the execution would be done as the law ordered; that he 
would be cut down before he had time to die, and that the 
butchery would be done on him while he M^ould still be 
conscious of it. ‘Death, too, was fearful, in any case. . . . 
Yet there were so many other things to occupy him — there 
was the exhilarating knowledge that he was to die for his 
faith and nothing else; for they had offered him his life if 
he would go to church; and they had proved nothing as to 
any complicity of his in any plot, and how could they, since 
there was none There was the pain of his tormented body 
to occupy him; a pain that had passed from the acute 
localized agonies of snapped sinews and wrenched joints 
into one vast physical misery that soaked his whole body 
as in a flood ; a pain that never ceased ; of which he dreamed 
darkly, as a hungry man dreams of food which he cannot 
eat, to which he awoke again twenty time a night as to a 
companion nearer to him than the thoughts with which he 
attempted to distract himself. This pain, at least, would 
have an end presently. Again, there was an intermittent 
curiosity as to how and what would befall his flying soul 
when the butchery was done. “To sup in Heaven ” was a 
phrase used by one of his predecessors on the threshold of 
death. . . . For what did that stand . . . And at other 


462 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


times there had been no curiosity, but an acquiescence in 
old childish images. Heaven at such times appeared to him 
as a summer garden, with pavilions, and running water 
and the song of birds ... a garden where he would lie at 
ease at last from his torn body and that feverish mind, 
which was all that his pain had left to him; where Mary 
went, gracious and motherly, with her virgins about her; 
where the Crucified Lamb of God would talk with him as 
a man talks with his friend, and allow him to lie at the 
Pierced Feet. . . . where the glory of God rested like 
eternal sunlight on all that was there; on the River of 
Life, and the wood of the trees that are for the healing 
of all hurts. 

And, last of all, there was a confused medley of more 
human thoughts that concerned persons other than himself. 
He could not remember all the persons clearly; their names 
and their faces came and went. Marjorie, his father, Mr. 
John FitzHerbert and Mr. Anthony, who had been allowed 
to come and see him; Dick Sampson, who had come in 
with Marjorie the second time and had kissed his hands. 
One thing at least he remembered clearly as he stood here, 
and that was how he had bidden Mistress Manners, even 
now, not to go overseas and become a nun, as she had 
wished; but rather to continue her work in Derbyshire, if 
she could. 

So then he stood, bent double on two sticks, blinking and 
peering out at the faces, wondering whether it was a roar 
of anger or welcome or compassion that had broken out at 
his apparition, and smiling — smiling piteously, not of de- 
liberation, but because the muscles of his mouth so moved, 
and he could not contract them again. 

He understood presently that he was to lie down on the 
hurdle, with his head to the horses’ heels. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


463 


This was a great business,, to be undertaken with care. 
He gave his two sticks to a man, and took his arm. Then 
he kneeled, clinging to the arm as a child to a swimmer’s 
in a rough sea, and sank gently down. But he could not 
straighten his legs, so they allowed him to lie half side- 
ways, and tied him so. It was amazingly uncomfortable, 
and, before he was settled, twice the sweat suddenly poured 
from his face as he found some new channel of pain in 
his body. . . . 

An order or two was issued in a loud, shouting voice; 
there was a great co?ifusion and scuffling, and the crack of 
a whip. Then, with a jerk that tore his whole being, he 
was flicked from his place; the pain swelled and swelled 
till there seemed no more room for it in all God’s world; 
and he closed his eyes so as not to see the house-roofs and 
the faces and the sky whirl about in that mad jiggling 
dance. . . . 

After that he knew very little of the journey. For the 
most part his eyes were tight closed; he sobbed aloud half 
a dozen times as the hurdle lifted and dropped over rough 
places in the road. Two or three times he opened his 
eyes to see what the sounds signified, especially a loud, 
bellowing voice almost in his ear that cried texts of Scrip- 
ture at him. 

We have hut one Mediator between God and man, the 
Man Christ Jesus. . . 

** We then, being justified by faith . . . For if by the 
works of the Law we are justified. . . .** 

He opened his eyes wide at that, and there was the face 
of one of the ministers bobbing against the sky, flushed and 
breathless, yet indomitable, bawling aloud as he trotted 
along to keep pace with the horse. 

Then he closed his eyes again. He knew that he, too, 
could bandy texts if that were what was required. Per- 


464 


COME RACK! COME ROPE I 


haps^ if he were a better man and more mortified^ he might 
be able to do so as the martyrs sometimes had done. But 
he could not ... he would have a word to say presently 
perhaps, if it were permitted; but not now. His pain oc- 
cupied him; he had to deal with that and keep back, if he 
could, those sobs that were wrenched from him now and 
again. He had made but a poor beginning in his journey, 
he thought; he must die more decently than that. 

The end came unexpectedly. Just when he thought he 
had gained his self-control again, so as to make no sound 
at any rate, the hurdle stopped. He clenched his teeth to 
meet the dreadful wrench with which it would move again; 
but it did not. Instead there was a man down by him, 
untying his bonds. He lay quite still when they were un- 
done; he did not know which limb to move first, and he 
dreaded to move any. 

“ Now then,*’ said the voice, with a touch of compassion, 
he thought. 

He set his teeth, gripped the arm and raised himself — 
first to his knees, then to his feet, where he stood swaying. 
An indescribable roar ascended steadily on all sides; but 
he could see little of the crowd as yet. He was standing in 
a cleared space, held by guards. A couple of dozen per- 
sons stood here; three or four on horseback; and one of 
these he thought to be my lord Shrewsbury, but he was 
not sure, since his head was against the glare of the sun. 
He turned a little, still holding to the man’s arm, and not 
knowing what to do, and saw a ladder behind him; he 
raised his eyes and saw that its head rested against the 
cross-beam of a single gallows, that a rope hung from this 
beam, and that a figure sitting astride of this cross-beam 
was busy with this rope. The shock of the sight cooled 
and nerved him; rather, it drew his attention all from him- 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


465 


self. ... He looked lower again, and behind the gallows 
was a column of heavy smoke going up, and in the midst 
of the smoke a cauldron hung on a tripod. Beside the 
cauldron was a great stump of wood, with a chopper and 
a knife lying upon it. . . . He drew one long steady breath, 
expelled it again, and turned back to my lord Shrewsbury. 
As he turned, he saw him make a sign, and felt himself 
grasped from behind. 

Ill 

He reached at last with his hands the rung of the ladder 
on which the executioner’s foot rested, hearing, as he went 
painfully up, the roar of voices wax to an incredible volume. 
It was impossible for any to speak so that he could hear, 
but he saw the hands above him in eloquent gesture, and 
understood that he was to turn round. He did so cautiously, 
grasping the man’s foot, and so rested, half sitting on a 
rung, and holding it as well as he could with his two hands. 
Then he felt a rope pass round his wrists, drawing them 
closer together. ... As he turned, the roar of voices died 
to a murmur; the murmur died to silence, and he under- 
stood and remembered. It was now the time to speak. . . . 
He gathered for the last time all his forces together. With 
the sudden silence, clearness came back to his mind, and he 
remembered word for word the little speech he had re- 
hearsed so often during the last week. He had learned it 
by heart, fearful lest God should give him no words if he 
trusted to the moment, lest God should not see fit to give 
him even that interior consolation which was denied to so 
many of the saints — yet without which he could not speak 
from the heart. He had been right, he knew now: there 
was no religious consolation; he felt none of that strange 
heart-shaking ecstasy that had transfigured other deaths 
like his; he had none of the ready wit that Campion had 


466 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


showed. He saw nothing but the clear October sky above 
him, cut by the roofs fringed with heads (a skein of birds 
passed slowly over it as he raised his eyes) ; and, beneath, 
that irreckonable pavement of heads, motionless now as a 
cornfield in a still evening, one glimpse of the river — the 
river, he remembered even at this instant, that came down 
from Hathersage and Padley and his old home. But there 
was no open vision, such as he had half hoped to see, no un- 
imaginable glories looming slowly through the veils in 
which God hides Himself on earth, no radiant face smiling 
into his own — only this arena of watching human faces 
turned up to his, waiting for his last sermon. . . . He 
thought he saw faces that he knew, though he lost them 
again as his eyes swept on — Mr. Barton, the old minister 
of Matstead; Dick; Mr. Bassett. . . . Their faces looked 
terrified. . . . However, this was not his affair now. 

As he was about to speak he felt hands about his neck, 
and then the touch of a rope passed across his face. For an 
indescribable instant a terror seized on him; he closed his 
eyes and set his teeth. The spasm passed, and so soon as 
the hands were withdrawn again, he began: 

Good people ” — (at the sound of his voice, high and 
broken, the silence became absolute. A thin crowing of a 
cock from far off in the country came like a thread and 
ceased)^ — “Good people: I die here as a Catholic man, 
for my priesthood, which I now confess before all the 
world.” (A stir of heads and movements below distracted 
him. But he went on at once.) “ There have been alleged 
against me crimes in which I had neither act nor part, 
against the life of her Grace and the peace of her domin- 
ions.” 

“ Pray for her Grace,” rang out a sharp voice below 
him. 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


467 


“ I will do so presently. ... It is for that that I am said 
to die, in that I took part in plots of which I knew nothing 
till all was done. Yet I was offered my life, if I would 
but conform and go to church; so you see very well 

A storm of confused voices interrupted him. He could 
distinguish no sentence, so he waited till they ceased again. 

“ So you see very well,” he cried, “ for what it is that I 
die. It is for the Catholic faith ” 

“ Beat the drums ! beat the drums ! ” cried a voice. 
There began a drumming; but a howl like a beast’s surged 
up from the whole crowd. When it died again the drum 
was silent. He glanced down at my lord Shrewsbury and 
saw him whispering with an officer. Then he continued: 

“ It is for the Catholic faith, then, that I die — that which 
was once the faith of all England — and which, I pray, may 
be one day its faith again. In that have I lived, and in 
that will I die. And I pray God, further, that all who 
hear me to-day may have grace to take it as I do — as the 
true Christian Religion (and none other) — revealed by our 
Saviour Christ.” 

The crowd was wholly quiet again now. My lord had 
finished his whispering, and was looking up. But the 
priest had made his little sermon, and thought that he had 
best pray aloud before his strength failed hyn. His knees 
were already shaking violently under him, and the sweat 
was pouring again from his face, not so much from the 
effort of his speech as from the pain which that effort caused 
him. It seemed that there was not one nerve in his body 
that was not in pain. 

“ I ask all Catholics, then, that hear me to join with me 
in prayer. . . . First, for Christ’s Catholic Church through- 
out the world, for her peace and furtherance. . . . Next, 

for our England, for the conversion of all her children; 
and, above all, for her Grace, my Queen and yours, that 


468 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


God will bless and save her in this world, and her soul 
eternally in the next. For these and all other such matters 
I will beg all Catholics to join with me and to say the 
Our Father; and when I am in my agony to say yet another 
for my soul.” 

Our Father . . /’ 

From the whole packed space the prayer rose up, in 
great and heavy waves of sound. There were cries of 
mockery three or four times, but each was suddenly cut 
off. . . . The waves of sound rolled round and ceased, and 
the silence was profound. The priest opened his eyes; 
closed them again. Then with a loud voice he began to 
cry: 

“ O Christ, as Thine arms were extended ” 

He stopped again, shaken even from that intense point 
of concentration to which he was forcing himself, by the 
amazing sound that met his ears. He had heard, at the 
close of the Our Father, a noise which he could not inter- 
pret: but no more had happened. But now the whole 
world seemed screaming and swaying: he heard the trample 
of horses beneath him — voices in loud expostulation. 

He opened his eyes; the clamour died again at the same 
instant. ... For a moment his eyes wandered over the 
heads and up to the sky, to see if some vision. . . . Then 
he looked down. . . . 

Against the ladder on which he stood, a man’s figure was 
writhing and embracing the rungs kneeling on the ground. 
He was strangely dressed, in some sort of a loose gown, in 
a tight silk night-cap, and his feet were bare. The man’s 
head was dropped, and the priest could not see his face. 
He looked beyond for some explanation, and there stood, 
all alone, a girl in a hooded cloak, who raised her great 
eyes to his. As he looked down again the man’s head had 


COME RACK! COME ROPE! 


469 

fallen back_, and the faee was staring up at him, so distorted 
with speeehless entreaty, that even he, at first, did not 
recognise it. . . . 

Then he saw it to be his father, and understood enough, 
at least, to act as a priest for the last time. 

He smiled a little, leaned his own head forward as from 
a cross, and spoke. . . . 

** Absolvo te a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et 
Spiritus Sancti, . . 


IV 

He only awoke once again, after the strangling and the 
darkness had passed. He could see nothing, nor hear, 
except a heavy murmuring noise, not unpleasant. But 
there was one last Pain now into which all others had 
passed, keen and cold like water, and it was about his 
heart. 

“ O Christ he whispered, and so died. 


THE END 


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